


Between Memory and Water

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modern Royalty, On the Run, Porn with Feelings, Road Trips, Romance, action / adventure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5283473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin's world implodes when the Prince of Wales staggers back into his life—broken, in pain and on the run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Memory and Water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merlin Holidays Community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Merlin+Holidays+Community).



> The title is from the poem "Canal Life", by Ian McMillan. With thanks to my wonderful beta, archaeologist_d, who helped me enormously with this story when I had faltered and lost my way, and who introduced me to this evocative poem. 
> 
> Dear Merlin Holidays Community. I hope you all have a healthy and peaceful holiday season. Please forgive me for hurting poor Arthur. *HUGS HIM*. I hope that Merlin's efforts to care for him soothe away the pain. 
> 
> Warning: for institutional homophobia, internalized homophobia, and Arthur's descriptions of his own off-screen past maltreatment.

Merlin was typing on his tiny notebook, with the TV muted, just for company, when a headline flashed across it.

_Prince of Wales vanishes._

He hit the “save” button and stared at the silent screen. Sure enough, a few seconds later, the picture cut to a recent shot of the prince, smiling into the camera at a rugby match, his hair spun out around his head like a golden halo. The light from it brightened the dingy basement room for a second, before darkening to a shot of a grave-faced reporter.

“What’s the idiot gone and done now?” Merlin said out loud to the empty pizza boxes and mouldy mugs that littered his coffee table. 

At that moment, there was a soft knock at the door. He pulled his glasses off and stretched as he rose, joints popping. He’d been sitting still for too long, as usual. Slowly, he hobbled over towards the door, stiff from inactivity.

“All right, all right, I’m coming. Who is it anyway?” Whoever it was had resumed knocking, rather more loudly.

“It’s only me,” Gwen hissed through the letterbox. “Let me in Merlin, it’s urgent.”

Gwen was Prince Arthur’s personal assistant, a job which she’d held onto with tenacity despite all King Uther’s best efforts to dislodge her. She also happened to be Merlin's closest friend

“Why didn’t you say?” Spinning out into the hallway, socks skidding on the bare floorboards, he tugged open the door.

“Took your time!” Gwen practically fell in, darting a glance behind her.

“What’s this all about?”

“Merlin, you have to help me.” Tiny, worried creases puckered her forehead.

“What’s the matter? I saw on the telly that Ar—”

“He’s in terrible danger, Merlin,” she interrupted. “You have to help.”

“Of course, Gwen, I’m happy to help, but I don’t understand what I can do that the police can’t.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and wondering what Gwen wanted from him. “It said on TV that he’d gone missing. Don’t you think the police would be better placed to—”

But she was shaking her head with such vehemence that he had to stop speaking.

“You don’t understand,” She steered him into the living room of Merlin's tiny basement flat, looking round again as if she was being followed. As she settled beside him, she took his hand in hers. “You’re my only hope. Uther is a monster. He’s determined to… Merlin, I think it’s not widely known, Uther has probably kept it quiet, but, Merlin, Arthur was... he was at Clinic Aredian.”

Her eyes were dark, glistening in the candlelight as she spoke. A silent tear trembled on the lip of her lashes before spilling down her cheek.

"Aredian? But that… I thought they’d closed it down! It’s barbaric, what they do there!” Standing, Merlin paced to the mirror and gazed at his own reflection, at the deep bags of exhaustion under his eyesockets. “That’s where Will—”

“I know, Merlin. Which is why I knew I could trust you. I know you’re a republican, but… I know you would never let anyone be trapped there. Not after what happened to Will. Uther sent him. His own father! Merlin, he’s in such a state. He’s—” A sob shook her shoulders.

“Whoa. Calm down, Gwen. What do you want me to do?”

“It’s a big ask.” She fished in her handbag for a packet of hankies and, withdrawing one, blew her nose. “But, please. Can he just stay here for a couple of days? Just while he’s getting his head straight. He can’t face Uther right now. Nor the press.”

“What? But I’ve got to finish—” Pulse racing in panic, he gestured to the mountain of unsorted paperwork, covered as it was with his fevered scribblings.

“He won’t disturb you. He just needs peace and quiet for a bit while he recovers. Away from the press, and the telly. But Uther will be trying to find him and bring him back. He can’t go back there, Merlin.” Biting her lip, she looked up at him through her lashes. ”Please?”

“Stop trying to charm me! Feminine wiles don’t work with me, you know that, Gwen.” He sighed. “Look, I’d love to help, but I... I just can’t! He should go back to the palace and just—”

“He can’t do that. Uther will send him back to that place. You can’t make him go there, Merlin.”

“Look. While it’s true that I’m horrified at the thought of anyone being forced to do what that evil charlatan Dr Aredian refers to as “therapy”, he’s the Prince of Wales, Gwen! He’s got cash to wriggle out of awkward situations. Plus, I’d have paparazzi crawling all over my basement flat before you can say GPS! I have to say no.”

“Fine.” Her lip trembled. “I thought better of you, but there you are.” She stood up. “I won’t ask for favours again.”

“Gwen! You don't understand—” Shame cast hot flares across his face, but what could he do?

“I understand that your stupid prejudices are clouding your judgment.” She stood ramrod straight, glaring at him, haughty as a queen.

It wasn't that, although he couldn't say so. He hated turning her down. Because, in numerous little ways she’d been his rock through difficult times - his father’s disappearance, Will’s death - and in all that time she’d never asked him for help. But this… he just couldn’t.

“I’m going to bring him in now..."

"No, please, Gwen!"

"Only for a few minutes, while I make some calls." The disappointed look she gave him made his heart clench. "Maybe I’ll find I have a better friend somewhere.” She stalked out into the hallway.

One part of him, the self-protecting part, inwardly screamed at him not to let her bring Arthur in. But the words died in his mouth. Heart pounding as he waited for the prince to enter, he stood and followed her into the hall, jaw clenched, fighting the urge to flee.

How many times had he pictured this moment? Arthur, silhouette picked out by the streetlights outside Merlin’s dingy basement flat, would step through the door, a sardonic grin tilting his impossibly perfect lips up on one side. Broad shoulders, proud eyes sparkling with mischief. He’d hold out his arms, murmuring apologies, and Merlin would tumble gratefully into them.

How different from his private imaginings was the shambolic figure who stumbled through the doorway now, one arm thrown round Gwen for support, the other holding onto the doorway as if for dear life. Gaunt-faced and haggard like a drug addict. Arthur's hair stuck up in dark clumps, and his unfocussed eyes stared into the gloomy flat as if trained on some nameless horror.  

“Help me,” Gwen pleaded, struggling to hold Arthur’s weight.

But Merlin was already rushing forward, his chest clenching in pity and horror.

“Arthur. God. What did that bastard do to you?” Trembling, Merlin draped Arthur’s other arm over his shoulder. As they wrestled Arthur into the flat, slamming closed the door, Merlin had to close his nose to the stench of vomit that made him want to gag. “Fuck, Gwen, how did you get him out?”

“Morgana sprang him from there and we got him into my car. Then, as soon as we were sure we weren’t being followed, we drove to another car, and manhandled him in. I brought him here. She’s driven my car off as a decoy. I didn’t tell her where I was taking him. They’ve drugged him, Merlin. And God only knows what else they were doing to him at that godforsaken clinic—”

White hot rage filled Merlin then, burning through his chest and throat so that he couldn’t speak for a moment. He knew, some of it, at least. Because Will had told him, he’d whispered some of what they had done to him, years ago. Right before he’d jumped to his death. Which was why Merlin had chosen to study the impact of such barbaric practices on former patients for his Ph.D.

Dr. Aredian’s clinic specialised in a form of so-called therapy called aversion therapy, which had the stated aim of curing people of their homosexuality. The sort of practices that they performed had been outlawed by mainstream psychiatry long ago. But not yet criminalised. And there were still some unscrupulous practitioners - religious fanatics, for the main part - who persisted in their spurious claims and foul techniques.

So Merlin had a horribly good idea of what went on in the clinic. And the thought of Arthur being stuck in some sordid room with pornographic pamphlets while they fed him emetics and pumped electric currents through his genitals… well, it made him want to throw up.

“What’s happening?” Arthur’s voice was slurred and Merlin could feel him trembling through his clothes, which were too thin for the weather.

“Easy now, Arthur. My name’s Merlin. You’re safe here,” he said, a great surge of protectiveness welling up. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise. You’re going to be okay. Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we? Gwen, help me get him into my room, will you? I can give him a wash down.”

“M’lin? Zat you?” Through whatever fog that clouded Arthur’s brain, he’d evidently recognised him.

“Er. Yes. It’s me, Arthur." Heart pounding, Merlin glanced at Gwen. "Erm, my name’s Merlin. I’m a friend of Gwen’s. You’re safe here.”

He peered at her to see if she had noticed their slip, but all he read on her face was a flash of gratitude.

“Glad it’s you. M’ not going back there.” Arthur’s face creased in a sort of frown, although his jaw was slack and his eyes unfocussed, shining and earnest in the pale glow from Merlin’s computer. “Don’t make me go back. Hurts.”

“I swear I won’t let them. They’ll have to kill me, first. God. What did they give you?”

“D’know.” Arthur shrugged. “Told them I’d changed my mind ‘bout it. Wanted to leave. Then Dr Aredian came and it all went fuzzy.”

“What?” If Merlin had been angry before, he was now incandescent. “You asked to leave and they didn’t let you? They can’t hold you there against your will, Arthur! That’s a criminal offence!”

“M’Father—”

“Your father may be the king, but he’s not above the law. No-one is.”

Groaning, he braced himself against Arthur’s bulk. He was heavy, drugged like this. It was with some relief that they finally got him onto Merlin’s bed.

“I’m afraid your clothes are going to have to go in the wash.” Sighing, Merlin started to drag off Arthur’s shirt. It would have been funny how different undressing Arthur on his bed was from his fantasies. Funny, if it hadn’t been so desperate and sad. “I’m so sorry they did this to you, Arthur.”

Even as they undressed him, Arthur’s eyelids were starting to droop. Worried, Merlin stopped struggling with the soiled trousers and put a finger to Arthur’s wrist. His pulse seemed strong, if a little fast, but he didn’t know what they’d given him, nor when it would wear off. As he peeled off Arthur's shirt, he saw that livid bruises stained Arthur's skin around his ribs and back. Some black and purple, some fading to yellow. Evidence of sustained and repeated abuse. They filled Merlin with a sudden fury that startled him in its intensity.  

“We should get a doctor,” Merlin said to Gwen when she returned from the bathroom with a flannel and a basin of hot, soapy water.

“But we can’t!” Anxious lines spidered across her brow. “Uther will be looking for him by now. Oh, Merlin. Please say you'll look after him. You're my only hope."

"Of course I will. I'm sorry I wavered. It's just..." He sighed. Now wasn't the time to go into his reasons. “I’ll look after him, Gwen. You should go. You're the first person they'll suspect. They'll be looking for you too. Besides... I might know someone who can help. Someone discreet.”

“No more misgivings about paparazzi?” 

His throat clamped shut at the memory of his initial crass denial. Unable to speak for a second, he shook his head.

“I’ll go, then.” She turned when she reached his bedroom door. “Oh! I nearly forgot. I know you don’t have much money, and Arthur can’t take any out without them finding him. He doesn’t carry cash anyway. So I withdrew all my savings.” She rummaged about in her bag, and her hand emerged clutching a thick envelope.

“Gwen! You can’t!”

“Shh. Look, you're right. You can't stay here, they'll find him. Anyway, Arthur will pay me back. And if he doesn’t, Morgana will. Don’t use your cards. Leave your phone here. You’ll need to get him some new clothes and you’ll need food and stuff. You should take him away, but you shouldn’t tell me where you’re going. So this will pay for a nice hotel for a few days.”

“Gwen! I can’t take this! There must be five grand in here!” 

“Shh. My mind’s made up. Wish me luck!” She darted across and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you for doing this, Merlin. Look after him, please?”

“Of course. Good luck.” He put a worried hand on her shoulder. She would be facing interrogation from Uther and probably the police. “Take care, Gwen.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Turning back to Arthur, he gently mopped away at the grime, waiting for her footsteps to retreat.

Arthur's hair was matted and dark with sweat; Merlin washed it as best he could with a sponge and flannel, and numerous careful bathroom revisits to refresh the water. He alternated between anxiety about Arthur waking and equal concern that he should be able to feel this, should be objecting to Merlin's ministrations. But Arthur remained oblivious, his breath coming fast, in little puffs through parted lips.

Once Arthur was tucked away in his bed, clean and dressed only in an old pair of jogging bottoms, Merlin picked up his phone.

Luckily, Gaius answered on the third ring.

*

“You’ve no idea what he has taken, you say? Nor when he took it, nor the dose?” The familiarity of Uncle Gaius’s voice, as he returned the earpieces of his stethoscope to his neck, should have been reassuring.  But it did nothing to calm Merlin’s anxiety.

“He’ll be all right, though, won’t he?” Bracing himself for bad news, Merlin looked down at where Arthur’s chest slowly rose and fell.

“Time will tell.” Sighing, Gaius turned and started packing his equipment away. “His temperature and heart rate are normal. His lungs sound strong. I think the ribs are bruised, but they may be cracked. It seems to me that he’s merely sleeping off exhaustion. Ideally I’d like his condition monitored more closely, but he is a fit, healthy man, and as you say in this case, I have no trust that the NHS can keep his situation confidential, nor that a private clinic will be safe for him, given that his father is actively searching.”

“I haven’t seen the news. Is it…” he reduced his voice to a whisper, even though Arthur was clearly asleep. “What’s happening?”

“There’s a nationwide search out.” Gaius patted his hand, and lifted a concerned eyebrow. “Be careful, Merlin. By sheltering him, I fear that you have put yourself in grave danger. Our king is not known for showing mercy or leniency.”

“I can’t let him go back to that… that fucking charlatan!” said Merlin. The vehemence of his own voice surprised him. “You didn’t see him when he came in! Those bastards… they should be the ones being locked up, not him!”

“I share your view,” said Gaius, nodding. “But do be careful.”

“I will.” Suddenly realising that he was stroking Arthur’s soft hair, so pale and fluffy now that it was clean, back from his forehead, he jerked his hand back with a start. “Will he be all right, Gaius?”

“Mmm.” Gaius’s hum was non-committal. “It’s hard to say for sure, but I have a feeling the psychological impact of his ill-treatment could cause him more long-term issues than any purely physical problems.”

A sharp pang assaulted Merlin. He sucked in an involuntary breath as he remembered Will’s despairing face. That couldn’t be allowed to happen to another living soul. Not Arthur, not anybody. Aredian had to be stopped.

Gaius was still speaking.

“He’ll need peace and quiet for a couple of weeks or more. If you can get him out into the countryside, fresh air and all that would probably help immeasurably.” Fumbling in his pocket, Gaius extracted a key and waved it at Merlin so that it tinkled. “Far away from the prying eyes of the media.”

“But there’s a nation-wide man-hunt on, you said.” Unable to interpret Gaius’s conspiratorial eyebrow at first, Merlin frowned at the key. And then smiled when he saw which key fob it was attached to.

“Oh!” He laughed out loud, snatching the key from his uncle with a sudden bloom of hope lightening the tension in his shoulders. “Gaius, you’re a genius.”

“Just make sure you remember that when I’m old and decrepit.” A mischievous grin lit his face, removing twenty years of care for a moment.

With a rush of affection, Merlin flung his arms round his uncle, burying his face in Gaius's jacket.

“I will,” he said, voice muffled by tweed.

 

*

When Arthur awoke, his head was throbbing. Nearby, heavy breathing sounds meant that someone was in the room with him. Heart pounding, he sat up, bracing himself for more pain. But none came. The snoring continued unabated while he stared wildly about into the darkness, gauging his surroundings and piecing together the fragments of the previous day.

Dr Aredian. A cold, bare room. A curiously distant feeling, as if he was out of his body, watching what was happening. Morgana slipping into the room. Whispered commands, hands under his arms. And after that, nothing - just a vague sensation of motion, nausea, and an overwhelming headache. But where was he now? This room didn’t look like the clinic. There was no smell of disinfectant - instead, the clean scent of newly-washed skin. His own, he realised, as he sniffed his hand.

“Morgana?” He said quietly. Whoever was there snored loud and masculine. “Who’s there?”

The snores stopped abruptly.

“Arthur?” 

That was odd. Most people didn’t call him by his first name - they’d call him sir, or Your Royal Highness. There weren’t many people who broke with protocol. And the voice was familiar, even after all this time. It couldn’t be...

“ _Mer_ lin?” He drew back the covers and slid his feet from under them onto the floor. A wave of nausea broke over him, flooding his mouth with saliva. He fell abruptly back down onto the bed, taking short, panicked breaths.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He wasn’t, but he couldn’t bring himself to show how unwell he felt. Willing his pulse to slow, he added, “Tell me I’m having a bad dream.”

“Show some respect! You’re in my bed, you ungrateful clotpoll!” There was a rustle from the floor. “And this sleeping bag is bloody uncomfortable.”

“You could have fooled me. You were snoring like a foghorn!”

“Prat!”

The sound of Merlin’s answering chuckle brought in a heavy tide of unbidden memories.

“But what am I doing here?” he said. His nausea started to subside as he stared at a jagged, thin crack in the ceiling.

“Gwen and Morgana brought you here.” Merlin sighed. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. A friend of mine went to Aredian’s clinic. After he... I couldn’t…wouldn't. Let them make you go back there. I promised Gwen I’d keep you safe until you’re ready to return to your duties.”

“I can’t,” whispered Arthur. The nausea returned in full force, making his breath quicken again. “I can’t go back there.” 

“It’s okay, Arthur.” The mattress dipped by his side as Merlin sat down next to him. A firm hand cupped his cheek, comforting in its warmth. Giving into an impulse, Arthur leaned into it. “I'll take care of you. I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

“It didn’t work, anyway.” Arthur shouldn’t have felt so shattered at his own words. Thankfully the darkness obscured the tears that welled up and spilled onto his cheeks. “My father…” How in hell was he going to explain what had happened to King Uther?

“Don’t think about him. All right?” Merlin’s voice was shaking, Arthur didn’t know why. “Gwen and Morgana will deal with him. What you need now is peace and quiet. If it’s all right with you, I’m going to take you on a boat trip.”

“A cruise?” Before Arthur joined the army, he and some friends had taken a yacht round the Mediterranean. The days had been spent sunbathing, and the nights were a haze of drink-fuelled sex and skinny dipping. It had been a slice of heaven.

“Er. Something like that? But in the meantime, try to get some sleep. Gwen said she thought that they’d sedated you. It should be wearing off, but you could probably do with the rest. And then, tomorrow morning, I’ll pick up some clothes for you off the market, and we’ll leave as early as we can.”

 

*

Nearer ten than nine, two hunched figures strode up the steps from the flat onto the grey Camden street, clad in plain-ish, dark clothes, and set off down the road with hoods over bowed heads. The cold, damp weather had forced hands into pockets. In the grey light, scurrying commuters and sharp-faced kids mingled, shouldering their way through the crowds. The two men walked with swift steps, noses buried in scarfs, eyes barely visible in the shadows of their hoods. In silent agreement, they turned their feet towards St Pancras Basin, a small dock that housed a handful of narrowboats, houseboats and other watercraft.

The basin itself was quiet, its occupants either absent or drowsing, warm in the berths of their canal boats. Here and there, tendrils of steam rose from chimney flues, hinting that people were cosy inside.

“Ta-dah!” Beaming from ear to ear, Merlin indicated with a sweep of his hand the gaily-decorated cabin of Gaius’s pride and joy, _Aithusa_. “Your luxury accommodation awaits! Please, step aboard!”

 _Aithusa_ was a beautiful two-berth narrowboat, 48 feet long, decked out in jaunty shades of blue-and-red. But even beneath the beanie hat, scarf and sunglasses that covered his distinctive royal features, the tense set of Arthur's features betrayed his disappointment.  A point which was forcefully made, a few moments later, when they were finally inside the cabin, and Arthur could give vent to his feelings without fear of his voice being recognised.

“We’re going on a cruise… on this… this… _barge_?” Picking up a cushion embroidered with a dragon motif, Arthur hurled it at the window. It fell to the floor.

“She’s a narrowboat, not a barge! Don’t be rude about her. You’ll make her sad.” Merlin stooped to retrieve the cushion, dusting it off.

“Boats don’t have feelings, Merlin.”

“Maybe not. But perhaps, your royal highness, it might not have occurred to you that impoverished Ph.D. students, who have been forced to stop writing their thesis in order to act as nursemaid for fleeing royal prats, do. Sir.”

A tense silence filled the cabin as Arthur digested this statement. 

“You don’t have to do this,” said Arthur, eventually, sitting so heavily on the sofa that the boat rocked a little. He buried his head, beanie hat and all, in his hands. “It’s all right. I’ll go back to the palace.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake.” Merlin leant back, against the dining table, with his arms crossed, his bubble of annoyance deflating with the prick of Arthur's evident discomfort. “You don’t have to sulk. It’s just… this is difficult for me, as well, you know? But you shouldn’t have to do anything you don’t want to. All right? I meant what I said. I'll look after you, gladly. Just… just try not to be so… brattish about it.”

“But they’ll find me. I mean, surely the police will know straight away where we are.” Arthur worried away at his lip. "And then they'll take me back to the clinic, and you'll end up in trouble."

Arthur had always been able to do this. To start an argument by acting the annoying, entitled prat, and then defuse it utterly in the next breath with his crippling self doubt. Merlin shouldn't find it endearing, but he couldn't help himself.

“Look," said Merlin. "Gwen covered her tracks. And even if they find my flat, the boat’s registered to my uncle. Who’s off on holiday today. And good luck to them trying to track him down in Italy. They won’t find us for days.”

Pulling off his sunglasses, Arthur cast a hand across his face.

“Why are you doing this?” he said, baldly. “You of all people… I haven’t forgotten who you are, who your father is.”

“Was. Who my father was.”

“I forgot.” Again, the anxious lip-bite. “That was insensitive of me. But why...”

“Because…” Merlin shrugged. “No-one should have to go through what you… because my friend, Will, jumped to his death after… because.” He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to find the words. _Because you’re a spoiled royal prat, but you’re beautiful. We hurt each other, years ago, and I still carry the scars, but you take my breath away..._. He swallowed. “Ultimately, no-one should have to suffer for who they are and who they love. Whether they’re the sons of prominent Irish Republicans like me, ordinary gay men like my friend, Will. Or the Prince of Wales. Everyone has the right to choose.”

When Arthur’s expression was serious like that, like an ancient hero, the archetype of nobility and strength of character, it made Merlin's heart constrict. It was unfair. Unfair that, as well as having all the privilege and riches that went with his rank, he should look the part, too.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Merlin.” Arthur’s eyes went soft, then. “And I do appreciate what you are doing. Truly.”

“That’s good.” Merlin grinned. “Because I need you to learn how to steer this thing. Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”

 

*

A few minutes later, Merlin fired up the engine and they were underway.

He was steering _Aithusa_  from the long tiller, located at the stern. A deep set of steps step led down from there into her cabin, where all the fittings and fitments were tucked neatly away into the gunwales. The bottom of the cabin lay below the waterline, within the frame of the hull, but the windows looked out at the water’s surface with a couple of feet clearance.

With a delicate pressure on the tiller, he turned her bow towards the west.  Beyond the basin, the Regent’s Canal climbed in a series of steps out of North London, up to where it joined the Grand Union Canal, and then up through the Chiltern Hills to its summit at Tring. From then on, it wound its way through south-east England’s fields and woodlands to industrial towns and cities in the heart of England and beyond, away to the North, a tranquil green artery that connected the secret sinews of Britain’s landscape.

No-one would ever think to look for Arthur on the canals. They could search all the hotels and bed-and-breakfasts in the land, and no-one would be any the wiser. It would be the perfect escape.

“Merlin!” A miffed-sounding voice crackled through the radio handset that they used to communicate from one end of the boat to the other. “MERLIN! How do you turn on this godforsaken television? Over.”

“You don’t. It doesn’t work. Over.” Merlin sighed, and tried to tamp down his treacherous libido. Damn Arthur and his posh, commanding voice!

Arthur must have abandoned his radio at that point, because that’s when his head appeared in the doorway.

From where Arthur was standing, down in the cabin, his face was roughly at Merlin’s groin height. But Merlin didn’t think about that. Really, he didn’t.

“What are you doing? You’ll be seen?” Merlin frowned.

“No I won’t,” said Arthur. “No-one can see me down here. I’m bored. What am I meant to do on here while you drive?” His fingers drummed on Aithusa's roof. He was pale-faced, tense and irritable, his eyes darting this way and that as he spoke.

That jittery look on Arthur's face, the on-edge anxiety, the appearance of someone seeking a distraction from their own, dark thoughts, filled Merlin with a gnawing apprehension. He'd seen that look before.

“You could read a book.” It was true that there wasn't anything much else to do.

“What?" said Arthur.

To hide his concern, Merlin rolled his eyes, to lighten the mood. “I know you went to a school for posh thickos, with more money than brains, but surely they taught you what books are?”

“I’m just shocked that you possess any. Picture books, presumably?” Despite the sarcasm of his words, Arthur’s teasing tone took the sting out of them, and the way that his mouth twitched in amusement made Merlin breathe a little easier.

“Don’t be such a supercilious snob,” Merlin said.

“You can’t talk to me like that!”

“I think you’ll find I just did!” Grinning, Merlin made a minute adjustment to the steering to nudge the prow round a wide bend. “Look. It’s pretty much your only option right now,” he added in a low voice. “ _Aithusa_ ’s a very elderly narrowboat, Arthur. Practically an antique! No mod cons. Well, apart from the loo, the shower and the dishwasher, that is. And we can’t use wireless, Morgana left your phone at the clinic, so they couldn’t track you with it. And I don’t want to risk them tracking me. So, no phones. No ipads, no internet. In fact, Gaius said that given your recent ordeal, it’s probably best to avoid the media altogether.”

“Fine! In that case, you'll have to entertain me instead.”

This was bad news. Bad news for Merlin’s peace of mind. Given Arthur's recent ordeal, it would be a gross breach of mistrust to harbour lustful thoughts at the tone of his voice and the teasing upturn to his lips. But no matter how hard Merlin tried telling his libido to back off, it wasn’t having any of it, not with Arthur’s face so close to his groin that he could practically feel the heat of his breath through his underpants. Just that thought made him break out into a sweat. Posh people should be banned from ordering him about at groin level. It just made his mind leap into the sewer. But unfortunately, being bossy was Arthur’s forte.

“It may have escaped your notice, you overbearing, twat,” said Merlin, trying his damnedest _not_ to think of a certain type of primitive entertainment, and failing. “But I’m trying to steer this boat away from the prying eyes of the media.” This part of the Regents Canal was too close to the offices of the Guardian newspaper for his liking.

“At least let me help driving the boat.”

“You don’t drive a boat, Arthur, you pilot it.”

“Oh, right, so now who’s being condescending?”

"God, it’s worse than having a toddler." Rolling his eyes, and using the moment to scan the local area for anyone who might see them and for CCTV cameras, Merlin shoved Arthur towards one of the cupboards. “Look, in there.” He pointed to a hatch, a few feet for’ard. “You'll find an old jacket of Gaius’s. It’ll be a bit narrow round the shoulders. Bung that on, and cover up your face and ridiculously obvious hair, and then I’ll show you how to steer.”

“Finally.”  Huffing a little more than Merlin thought necessarily, Arthur shrugged into the jacket. "And I don't just _bung_ my clothes on, Merlin. You should know that by now."

"I'm surprised you can manage them at all," Merlin muttered.

"What?"

"I said, I'm surprised that you've grown so tall!"

"No you didn't, you insubordinate, disrespectful bumpkin!" Arthur was laughing, now.

“Wait.” Merlin leaned forward through the hatch as if to adjust Arthur’s scarf.

“What is it?” Arthur frowned comically as he gazed down at his scarf.

“Your prat is showing.” Laughing, Merlin leaned back. “Gotcha!”

“Cheeky sod.” 

The warm expression in Arthur's eyes was one that he hadn't seen for so long. Merlin couldn't help it if his own mouth took on a decidedly fond tilt.

 

*

Piloting a barge - sorry, narrowboat - was about as different from the sort of sailing Arthur had done before as a steamroller would be different from a sports car.  For a start off, the maximum speed was something like four knots. Arthur could walk faster. People seemed to like driving these things, and did it for pleasure, but to him it seemed a bit pointless and frustratingly slow. And then there was the whole steering thing. Arthur found punting, in his friend Leon’s Oxford days, similarly frustrating. He would start to steer, and nothing would happen. So he would exaggerate the movement, and the next thing he would know he would be going round and round in circles. And no amount of shoving the tiller the other way would correct it.

Not that it was possible to make _Aithusa_ go round and round in circles. She was too long to turn her round, once they got out of the basin and out onto the Regents Canal. Instead he zig-zagged erratically from bank to bank, cursing his own ineptitude.

The narrowness of the canal also meant that they were on a one way trip, at least until they reached another segment of the canal where it widened enough to allow _Aithusa_ to turn. Although Merlin had assured him that such sections existed, right now they were floating, excessively slowly, up a silent, dark green section of water that looked as if odd, tentacled creatures might lurk in its inky depths. With no way of escape except forwards. At four knots.

It was enough to make him feel nervous.

And then there were the locks.

God, whoever had invented those was some kind of a warped, evil genius.

They moored by the side of the canal for Merlin to work a lock. He leapt off the lip that jutted around the edge of the boat, onto the towpath, and did something complicated with the rope that pulled them into the mooring ring.

“Arthur - can you pass me the windlass, please?”

“The what?”

“Bit steel tool thingy. Kind of like a giant allen key. It’s down there, on the shelf just by your feet.”

Looking down, Arthur located the tool and passed it to Merlin. It looked like something that you could use as a murder weapon.

Merlin attached it to a kind of peg next to the lock mechanism, and turned it vigorously. Water began gushing out of the bottom of the lock. He walked across a precarious path across the top of the lock gates to do to the same on the second gate, on the other side, before clambering back across to the towpath. After a few minutes, he started to push against the lock gate and it gently drifted open.

“Okay, mate, let’s see if you can steer through this gap.” His eyes dancing with mischief as he grinned, Merlin unwound the rope from the mooring peg and stepped back onboard in one fluid move. The boat rocked, gently, as if in greeting.

Arthur turned up the engine and minutely altered the position of the tiller. Minutes later, they were inside the lock, its glistening, vertical walls dripping and sleek with dark green algae. As they approached the end, he slipped the throttle into reverse, so that _Aithusa’_ s nose didn’t bump the lip at the bottom of the far lock gate.

“Not bad for a first timer,” said Merlin, darting up a ladder to the top of the lock. “Chuck us the rope. We’ll need to keep her secure while the water level rises.”

Despite the slow pace of progress, there was certainly enough to keep him occupied while they were negotiating locks. What with operating windlasses, securing the boat, and making sure that the lock gates were secure, Arthur didn’t have time to think.

No, the problems occurred later, after they’d passed through the bustling crowds at Camden Lock - Arthur with his face buried in his scarf. After they’d drifted alongside the zoo, and the north side of Regent’s Park, with all its ornate canalside houses.

Because that’s when Arthur started to brood.

They’d been through Little Venice and entered the first reaches of the Grand Union Canal when it began to hit him.  Merlin was fixing up something in the tiny galley. Arthur was aft at the tiller, steering the boat, when he spotted a dog-walker along the tow-path and they locked eyes for just a second. It was such a brief moment, he couldn’t work out why it made his heart race and his skin feel clammy, but he suddenly felt terribly exposed.

He reached for the radio.

“Merlin,” he said softly. “Merlin?” Knowing that his voice was distinctive, he did not want to speak too loudly.

The relief that he felt when the radio crackled into life was intense.

“What’s up? Over.”

“I need to go below, for a bit,” he said, trying to disguise the tremor in his voice.

“Oh,” said Merlin, after a moment. “What’s up? Over.”

“Just… just come up here? Erm. Over.” His throat locked and he couldn’t speak any more. He burrowed his face into his scarf. Tension overwhelmed him until his hands started to tremble. He held onto the tiller for dear life for what seemed like an eternity but in reality could not have been more than a minute or two.

“What is it? Arthur?” At first Merlin looked like he was about to crack a joke, but then his face fell. “Are you all right?”

Trembling, Arthur shook his head and let go of the tiller.

“Whoa!” Merlin leaped up onto the stern to take hold of it. “You go below. I’ve got this.” His voice was reassuring, and gentle. “Don’t forget to breathe. Arthur? I’ll moor up at a quiet spot and come back down.”

Arthur needed no second telling. It seemed to take forever to weave his way past the galley, where a pan of eggs stood cooling, past the dining table to the tiny sofa that doubled as a single bunk. Hastily drawing closed all the curtains, he sat, shivering, in semi-darkness, his senses on full alert for a sudden shout or abrupt change of direction.

But the engine’s quiet chug-chug continued unchanged, and the expected shout never came.

For what felt like hours, he hugged his arms while the boat continued her journey, the water lap-lapping reassuringly against the hull like a lullaby. Gradually, Arthur felt his muscles lose a little of their tension as he sat, poised for flight. What if he’d been seen? He’d have to go back to Aredian’s clinic.  He couldn’t go back there. Shuddering, he clung to one of the cushions - plush, deep red like Merlin’s lips, decorated with a motif of tiny white dragons.

Then a slow change in tone, a deepening of the engine’s voice signalled that it was slowing, with a sudden change of momentum as _Aithusa_ veered over towards the left bank of the canal. The boat rocked for a moment - and then again. Footsteps sounded out along the wooden floor. An irrational part of him imagined it was Aredian come to take him back and cure him of his sickness, the sickness that he knew with a diamond certainty would never go away, and nauseated, he shook in horror and self-loathing.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice, a friendly arm slung around his shoulders, Merlin’s breath in his hair. Calm and quiet. It made Arthur ache. “Arthur, it’s all right. Just breathe with me, okay? It’s going to be all right.”

But it wasn’t all right. Because it was the way that his body filled with longing at Merlin’s touch that showed him that it hadn’t worked. All that pain and discomfort. None of it had worked at all. He was just as broken as he'd ever been. More.

“It’s not okay. I’m not cured.” So weak, so helpless. Putting his head between his knees, Arthur tried not to sob.

“They can’t cure you of being who you are, Arthur.” Merlin’s hands described warm circles on Arthur’s back. “There’s no cure for being human. There never has been, and there never should be.”

“But my father…” Desolate, bereft of words, Arthur picked up his head and stared helplessly at Merlin.

But from Merlin's expression, the way his eyes shone as if in grief, and the gentle way that his thumb glided along Arthur's cheekbone, he knew.

“There was a dog walker. He saw me…” Still breathing hard, Arthur bit his lip to disguise the crack in his voice. “I was scared… weak…”

“Hush,” said Merlin, eyes dark. “Don’t think about him, now. Just… close your eyes. Listen to your breathing. To my breathing. Listen to the distant sounds of the city, to the rippling water. Put everything else outside your head. It doesn’t matter, not here and now.”

Arthur closed his eyes, with a breath that was half a gasp, and listened.

“That’s good. Breathe in and out. Listen to me and breathe with me, Arthur.”

Arthur breathed.

“Relax your shoulders. Come on.”

Warm fingers dug into the taut muscles in his neck, so firm that he had to bite his lip to stop himself from groaning.

“Being human isn’t a weakness, Arthur. Remember that.”  Merlin’s voice was soft.

“Whatever made you so wise?”

“What, me? Wise? You’ve got to be kidding.” Merlin sighed, but the soothing rub of his thumbs continued deep into his shoulder blades until Arthur exhaled. “ But… I’ve learnt some things. Reluctantly, on the whole. I grew up, I suppose. When I lost my dad... it put a lot of things into perspective. The battles I’d fought over sexuality, ideology, that sort of thing. I thought a lot about what’s important. And… to me, the important thing is to live before we die. Plus there’s the small matter of the Ph.D. in psychology.”

“Which you should be writing up right now.” Giving in to the sensations, Arthur let his shoulders grow heavier.

“That can wait.” Merlin flashed him a wan smile. “I mean. What else is it for? If not to help someone who’s hurting?”

Arthur didn’t know when it had happened, this complete trust in one human being, but it must have done. Because the next thing he remembered was waking up, a blanket draped over him, to the smell of bacon cooking.

 

*

_Eyes open, jaw slack, he pressed his weight down until the flushed skin of his chest spread hot against the pale length of Merlin’s back. With a shift of his hips he made a final push forward, Merlin slipping around the tip of his cock, hot and tight and perfect. Merlin’s groan rumbled through his chest, making him shiver._

_“All right?” It took all Arthur’s self-control to halt the delicious slide._

_With a stifled whimper, Merlin reached around him to clutch at his arse with a single flailing hand._

_“_ _Don’t stop,” he whispered._

_Obligingly, Arthur eased in._

Arthur awoke abruptly, heart racing, blinking against the darkness, his erection pressed hard against his hip by too-tight, cast-off underpants. He hadn’t had that dream for a while. Months. Years, even. But had lost none of its vividness nor potency.

The boat was quiet, save for the gentle sound of snoring from Merlin’s berth—which doubled as a sofa, during the day, and was way up forward, towards the prow. Outside, an owl hooted, cleaving the peaceful lap-lap of the rippling water. Arthur listened, his heart slowing, but his insistent cock didn’t get the message. It was as if the earlier touch of Merlin’s fingers on his neck had awakened something that had lain dormant, an echo of their earlier relationship that Arthur had thought he had managed to bury.

It had all started with Morgana, of course. Everything significant in his life seemed to start with her. And it was years ago, years, that party where he had met Merlin, but still somehow bright and clear in his head.

She’d been invited to some ridiculous Halloween party, and wouldn’t go on her own. Even though she had that terrifying security guard, Morgause, in tow, she had also insisted on dragging Arthur along. He had only been back on leave for a few days. Naturally reluctant to expose himself to the usual flurry of eyelash-fluttering girls, he had worn the most ridiculous Batman costume that Morgause could find for him, and had insisted that Morgana introduce him as Ralph.

Upon arrival, he had steered himself to the kitchen and come face to face with some sort of a werewolf.

And that’s where it had all started, really. He didn’t think that Gwen, the hostess, had even known that he’d been there. As usual, Morgana had forgotten all about him. She’d ditched her security detail, and left with Herman Munster.

He very much doubted whether anyone had ever cottoned on to what had happened next. Except him, of course.

And Merlin.

 

*

_“Beer?” The rampant glued-on facial hair didn’t hide the slow, lazy glide of the werewolf’s appraising eyes, nor the appreciative tongue that slid out to moisten plump lips. “I’m Merlin, by the way. Merlin the werewolf. I suppose that makes me a mer-wolf, although that wouldn’t work, as I don’t have gills.” A tipsy giggle. Hand outstretched, Merlin offered Arthur the unopened bottle._

_Taking the beer with a nod, Arthur popped it with the bottle-opener, and inserted it under his mask. Knowing how recognisable his voice was, he opted not to say anything, but instead to raise an appreciative thumb in thanks._

_“The strong, silent type, I see.” Pushing off the worktop he was leaning on, his body cat-like, all sinuous curves and lean muscle, Merlin came closer, too close. “What else are you hiding, under that cape? A tidy arse, by the look of it. Firm thighs. Let me guess - rugby player? No, you’ve still got all your teeth. Footie?” He giggled again. “No. I recognise that stance, now. Army. Plenty of army boys in Belfast in the old days. Am I right, Bruce Wayne?”_

_Feeling his lips shaping into a lopsided smile, despite his misgivings, Arthur nodded._

_“Fuck.” Merlin took a glug of his beer, lips and tongue caressing the bottle. “I love squaddies. All repressed masculinity and finely honed thighs.”_

_Arthur couldn’t keep his eyes off Merlin’s mouth as his tongue darted out and licked an obscene stripe around the bottle neck._

_“You, though. I can’t see much of you, but what I can see I like,” said Merlin_

_“Mmm?”_

_“Oh yeah. Pretty lips, my friend. Pink and sarcastic, just how I like them. But you won’t speak, not even to tell me to fuck off. That’s unusual. Let me guess. Hiding?”_

_Arthur nodded and took a sip of his beer, tipping his head back, exposing his neck._

_“Pissed off your CO?” Merlin was staring at him through heavy-lidded eyes as he drank. “There’s something tremendously liberating about fancy dress, don’t you think?” Biting his lip, Merlin stepped even closer, until Arthur could smell cheap cologne and expensive beer. “As a werewolf, I think I’m entitled to offer to bite that enticing neck.” He dipped his head forward, and his tongue licked hot then cold along Arthur’s neck._

_Arthur let out an involuntary yelp, but didn’t step back, because, God.  His breathing came in erratic gasps, heart stuttering. He felt alive. More alive than he had done for months. And he didn’t want this strange dance to end._

_“So you do have a voice.” Blue eyes held his gaze. “Tell me to fuck off, if you like. But, God your neck. It’s practically begging me to suck it.”_

_Arthur put his hand out, as if to stop Merlin, but then something weird happened at the last minute, and instead he loosely grasped Merlin’s messy black hair, tugging him forward to lick again. When Merlin’s hot, red lips, so red, made contact and he sucked, hard enough to raise a bruise, the sudden pain zinged across Arthur’s skin and tugged loose something coiled and tight in his belly. His cock pressed hard against the fly of his trousers, and he let a grunt of pleasure escape him._

_When the door flew open, Merlin leapt back as if scalded, turning his back on whoever came in, and Arthur was grateful for his cape, which he hurriedly swept across himself. It may have been cheap and tawdry, but at least it masked the hard outline of his arousal._

_“Oh there you are, Arthur. I mean Ralph. I just wanted you to know that I’m going home with Percy. You may go now.” Morgana swept imperiously out again, in that haughty way of hers that had equerries either eating out of her hand or scattering in sheer panic._

_“Morgana I…”_

_But it was no good. She’d gone, leaving him unmasked in the presence of a vampire. Werewolf. Whatever. Who was pointing at him now, a horrified expression on his face._

_“You!”_

_Arthur sighed. “Yes, me.”_

_“Fuck. I bit the Prince of Wales. Shit, that’s treason. God, I’m probably going to be hanged. But, fuck, there you were all silent and—and—manly. And what was I supposed to do? I’m pissed and horny. It’s all your fault, you royal prat. Why didn’t you stop me? Fuck. My poor mother.”_

_“Merlin?” Not sure what else to do to stop the seemingly imminent panic attack, Arthur stepped forward and grasped Merlin’s shoulders. “Shut up.” He fitted their mouths together. Merlin carried on talking for a while, his words muffled by Arthur’s lips and tongue._

_“Has anyone ever told you what a big mouth you’ve got?” said Arthur._

_“All the better to eat you with,” quipped Merlin, his eyes amused half-moons._

_“Fuck yeah,” breathed Arthur tilting his head, licking between Merlin's sweet, succulent lips until he moaned._

_It all seemed to make perfect sense, at the time._

 

_*_

Shifting onto his side, Arthur stared into the blackness, gently palming his cock through his pants. Still aching after that intense dream. After all that Aredian had done, it was comforting, though inconvenient, to know that the equipment was still working. Merlin’s snoring had eased off, and the cabin was silent. Swallowing, Arthur slipped an experimental hand under his briefs encircling his aching erection, adopting a slow rhythm, to stave off the moment, and to avoid waking his shipmate.

The thing about being on a boat, moored as they were on quiet still water, was that stealth was pretty much impossible. Even if Merlin had managed to keep his movements quiet - and Arthur couldn’t help smiling to himself at how hopeless Merlin was at that - it still would have been obvious that he’d left his bunk and started walking aft, from the way that _Aithusa_ rocked gently in response.

So it was no surprise when a warm body slipped into the double bed behind him.

“Merlin, what are you doing?” Arthur's face burned.

“It is my uncle’s boat. Don’t see why you get to have the double bed. Plus, I could hear you. Sounded like you were in pain.”

“I’m not in pain, you idiot.” It was a good thing that the boat was in complete darkness. Arthur's face burned.

“I know.” Merlin chuckled. “Want some help with that?”

“Merlin!”

“Too soon?”

“Fuck, no.” What with the heat of Merlin’s body pressed up against his, and the aftermath of that intense dream, there was little chance of his cock listening to reason. Especially not after he felt Merlin’s long fingers curl round his still-working hand, and the firm line of Merlin’s cock pressing into his pyjamas. Groaning, he released his own hand, throat catching when Merlin’s clever fingers worked across his cockhead and smoothed their way down the shaft.

Aredian’s clinic had been hell. Unpleasant, painful and evidently completely ineffective. Well, he'd given it his best shot, and right now he felt gayer than ever.

 

*

The desk in King Uther's private office dominated the room, proud and solitary like the man who sat behind it with his fingers arched together.

“Where is he?” The king's foot tapped impatiently.

“I don’t know, sir, I’m sorry.” Heart stuttering a terrified rhythm, Gwen kept her eyes downcast. Until now Morgana and Arthur had managed to protect her job, prizing her loyalty, tact and organisational skills. She wondered if this would be the final straw.

“Look at me when you’re talking to you.”

Stung, she met his gaze.

“I honestly have no idea where he is, sir,” she said, opening her eyes wide. “I’m telling the truth.”

“You’re his secretary, of course you know where he is.” Eyes narrowing, he leant forward across the desk and thumped it so hard that she jumped. “Tell me now!” he yelled. “Or I will have you incarcerated.”

Heart pounding at the tone of menace that had crept into his voice, she shook her head.

“With all due respect, father, you can’t…”

“Morgana, get out!” His jaw clenched. Gwen could see it tightening, see the vein throbbing in his neck.

“I won’t, father. You have no right to interrogate Gwen. She is not the one who is in the wrong.”

“She is lying to me!”

“I’m not,” cried Gwen.

“Silence!” he bellowed, his voice echoing around the draughty chamber.

Unbowed, Morgana strode across the room and leant across the desk, her face close to Uther’s.

“Father, Aredian is the one who broke the law. He imprisoned Arthur against his will. You have no right to hurl accusations at Gwen.”

“I can have her dismissed.”

“In which case I will re-hire her. Anyway, do you want her to go to the press and tell them what Aredian did to Arthur? No, I thought not.”

“I would never—” 

“I know you wouldn’t, Gwen.” Interrupting her in a cool voice, Morgana looked at her fingernails. “But I would.”

“Morgana,” said Uther, “don’t be ridiculous. You would never drag the family name through the mud.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I? Seems to me, father, that you don’t need much help in that area.” She turned to Gwen and reached out her hand. “Come, Gwen. Don’t worry about that vicious old dinosaur. Wherever Arthur is, I’m sure he’s better off than he would be being tortured by that butcher, Aredian, at his barbaric clinic.”

“I mean only the best for Arthur. He’s troubled, he needs—”

“He’s gay!” Morgana screamed. “It’s not a disease, father. It’s a gift. And the sooner you appreciate Arthur for all the things that he is, rather than missing all the things that you want him to be, the better.”

“How dare you.” Uther rang the bell on his desk and the door opened to admit his security detail. “Get them out of here!”

“Don’t bother, father.” Morgana dragged a shell-shocked Gwen out of the door. “We’re leaving.”

At the very edge of Gwen's hearing, before the door slammed closed, Uther spoke again.

"Have them followed, Leon. I want him found.”

 

*

That night they moored up near Southall, which was handy because Merlin fancied a curry.

“Where are you going?” Arthur looked up from Merlin’s battered copy of _“The Song of Achilles”_. His eyes were still gaunt, face haggard and pale. Merlin hoped that a good meal and a good night’s sleep would help to smooth out the deep, anxious lines that marred Arthur’s forehead.

“Won’t be long.” Merlin shrugged on his serviceable leather jacket. “Just going to pick up a take-away. There’s an amazing place, just up the road from here, where they sell the most gorgeous dosas you’ve ever tasted.”

“Dosas?” From his expression, Arthur’s experience of Indian food had been fairly limited - probably only what squaddies could get hold of from cheap take-aways. And army rations.

Merlin felt a sudden urge to educate the prince. 

“Yeah. And fantastic samosas. I’ll bring back a selection.”

“No. Wait!” Flinging his book face down on the table, Arthur stood up. “I’m coming with you.”

“Seriously?” It had only been a couple of days, and Merlin knew that Arthur was still exhausted and didn’t need to be in the public eye. Besides which, there was no security detail. “If anyone recognises you, I have to warn you that I’m a rubbish bodyguard.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Cheeky sod.”

“Look, It’s okay. I’ll wear a hat. And no-one will recognise me with this beard.”

It was true that Arthur was sporting a couple of days worth of stubble, and with the hat on, he did look different.

“All right.” Merlin sighed. Fresh air and a walk would aid Arthur’s recovery, but he couldn’t help worrying about paparazzi, terrorists, fangirls, police dogs, and numerous other unknown dangers that Britain’s highest-profile royal might exposed to. On the other hand, dosas were best eaten straight after cooking. “But we’re just picking up a take-away, okay? No talking, keep yourself covered up, no funny business. Agreed?” 

“Absolutely.” Arthur grinned, his face lighting up, like a naughty boy who has just learned that the school is closing for snow.

Merlin swallowed, fighting a sudden brief urge to strip his jacket straight back off again and cover that beautiful, rare smile with devoted kisses.  

 

* 

It was a tense huddle that sat, heads together, in the dining room of Princess Morgana’s apartments at Kensington Palace.

“But I still don’t understand. How does the king know about Merlin?” Gwen’s brows knotted together. “We were so careful. I know we weren’t followed.”

“Maybe the police have been tracing your movements using your phone, Gwen.” Leon’s voice was gentle, as always.

“But I often go to see Merlin after work on a Friday…” She’d done her best not to do anything to draw attention to herself.

“Yes, but the prince is not often kidnapped.”

“Poor Merlin.” Biting her lip, Gwen looked down again at the headlines. It seemed so unfair for a manhunt to be out looking for her friend when he’d done nothing wrong.

They'd only found out today, when they read the papers, that the police were looking for “Merlin Emrys, son of the notorious late Irish Republican, Balinor Emrys” in connection with Arthur’s disappearance. The papers made Merlin look like a kidnapper, a conspirator in some sort of terrorist plot, and although the police and the king knew that nothing could be further from the truth, she knew that there were members of the public who would lynch him on sight. And poor Merlin had no idea.

“It’s all my fault.” Her chest felt tight with guilt. “We must warn him! He’s in terrible danger! He didn’t even want to get involved. But…” remembering that evening, she frowned again. “It’s weird, really. I think that Arthur recognised him, although Merlin tried to cover it up. I didn’t even know they knew each other.”

“What?” Morgana looked up from the paper, frowning. “That’s ridiculous. They never met while we were at university. I mean, Arthur was in the army the whole time - he did come back to visit me on leave for a few weeks that time, but I’m sure I’d have noticed…”

“Really?” Gwen smiled, forgetting her upset for a moment. “I’m not so sure you’d have noticed much. You were all loved up with Percy at the time, as I recall. Didn't you meet him at that party? He was dressed as Herman Munster. And you said he had an enormous—”

“Ahem.” Leon tugged at his collar, face pink.

“Oh, sorry, Leon! I forgot that you didn’t know about… and of course, there’s you with your…”

“Gwen!” Morgana gave her that look, the one she reserved for when Gwen was gabbling and about to say something really, really inappropriate.

“Sorry, Morgana.”

"But you're right, though. I mean, come to think of it, it was after that visit that he had his big gay crisis… he was a right mess. Uther sent him to see a shrink…" Morgana's voice tailed off, and she stared into space for a moment.

Sighing, Gwen returned her attention to the notebook on her lap. “It’s a good thing we’ve got your help, Leon. Thanks for letting us know what Uther’s up to.”

“It’s okay.” Leon shrugged “Just remember me when I get fired, okay?” He darted a look at Morgana.

Gwen’s painful feelings of guilt doubled. It was all very well putting her own job in jeopardy, but poor Leon had gone out on a limb for Arthur as well. All of a sudden, the stakes seemed very high.

“You’ll be fine, Leon.” Morgana cupped his cheek with a fond hand. “I can always take you on as my head of security.”

“You can’t do that! I couldn’t put Mordred out of a job!”

“All right, then. If all else fails, I’ll employ you as a gigolo.” She examined her fingernails, the picture of nonchalance.

“Morgana!” said Leon, looking outraged, although even through his horrified expression, Gwen could see how much he liked the idea.

“Can we get back the point?” Gwen tapped the notebook with her pen. “How are we going to get a message to Merlin? We don’t have any idea where he is. He didn’t take his mobile with him, and all our phones are being tapped. Wait! I know! Why don’t we call his mum? She might know where he would have gone.”

“But won’t she be terribly worried?”

“I think that cat’s out of the bag.” Morgana pointed at the paper. “But doesn’t she still live in Ireland?”

“So?”

“Doesn’t he have any relatives in England?”

“He’s got a great uncle. Black sheep of the family. Gay Uncle Gaius,” said Gwen. “Good idea, Morgana. I’ll see if I can track him down - I think he looked after Merlin when his dad kicked him out.”

Just then, the intercom to Morgana’s apartment buzzed insistently.

“Damn, that’ll be Morgause. I forgot she was coming round tonight.”

There was a discreet knock, and Morgana's security detail, Creepy Mordred, poked his head around the door.

“Shall I get that, your grace?” he said, his face oddly expressionless as usual.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Mordred.”

“Of course.”

As he turned to leave, he caught Gwen’s eye, and she suppressed a shiver at the coldness she saw there. God. Creepy Mordred gave her the heeby-jeebies. She really hoped Morgana would sack him and take on Leon instead.

 

*

Merlin seemed to have an uncanny knack for mooring up near places which sold good take-away food. After his initial scepticism, Arthur had dived into the Southall curry with enthusiasm, and now, a few days later, and a few miles outside London, was enjoying a huge plate of fish and chips with a similar amount of gusto.

“How do you know about these places?” Arthur gestured towards his food. “This is bloody brilliant.”

“Genius, I suppose.” Merlin shrugged. “You should be careful, though. Don’t want the royal waistline expanding too much!”

“Oh ha ha. I’m fighting fit, I’ll have you know!”

“That’s not what it looked like this morning!”

“You cheated!”

They’d gone for a long run that morning, along the towpath, which wound its way through the hidden places of England’s industrial past. They were out in the countryside, now, and mostly their run took them alongside fields and pretty villages, punctuated by the occasional Victorian canalside pub. Merlin had only been jogging, really, not pushing the pace at all, but nevertheless Arthur, to his chagrin, had struggled to keep up. He knew he wasn’t on his best form, not after the way that the clinic had treated him, but his lack of stamina shocked him.

“Don’t worry, Arthur, we’ll have you back in shape in no time.” It was as if Merlin could read his thoughts, sometimes.

“You’re meant to call me sir,” Arthur couldn't help being petulant, not when Merlin was giving him those sympathetic looks.

“Arrogant prat.” With a sorrowful shake of his head, Merlin speared a plump-looking chip. “Republican, remember? I don’t call anybody sir.”

“Oh, really?” Arthur lowered his voice to a dangerous growl.

“Yeah, really.” But Merlin’s eyes were downcast and he swallowed before adding, “like my father before me,” and stabbing at his chip.

Gazing dumbly at him, Arthur realised that they’d crossed a line out of banter and into something else. Not knowing what else to say, he nodded, and glared at his plate, suddenly finding he wasn’t hungry any more.

He stood up, abruptly, and sidled round the table to put a hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

“You miss him,” said Arthur, struggling to convey everything that he meant with mere words. “Of course you do.”

“Yeah.” Merlin shrugged, the bones of his shoulder solid beneath Arthur's fingers. “It doesn’t go away.”

“No. I know.” Arthur had been fifteen when his mother had been killed, with the world gazing on in avid, ghoulish interest.

“God knows what he’d be thinking if he could see me now,” Merlin covered Arthur’s hand with his own and stared up at him, eyes a thin circle of vivid blue around a deep pool of black.

“It’s not his world, any more.” Arthur shrugged but didn’t break eye contact. “Perhaps now we can put aside the old enmities that once divided this land.”

Merlin’s answer was a tentative smile, lop-sided and watery-eyed.

The congealing remnants of their food were still there in the morning.

 

*

The world seemed eerily quiet this morning, as if muted by an invisible hand. The sudden rush of passing trains along the adjacent railway line, the hum of traffic along a nearby bypass, were muffled and distant. Through the window, a thick veil of mist hovered low over the water, leaching all the colour in the background from green to grey, and stifling the riot of birdsong that normally greeted the dawn.

Merlin lay beside him, stretched out on his side, his hair a shock of black against the pale pillowcase. Arthur didn’t want to leave the warm, creamy contours of Merlin’s skin. His fingers itched to touch, to trace out the line of Merlin’s ribs and spine, to cup the gentle arch of his buttocks beneath the folds of the counterpane. But his bladder was full and he needed a cup of hot tea.

Sighing out his regret, he gently his lips against Merlin’s shoulder blade to promise his imminent return and shuffled out from the end of the berth, padding, barefoot, towards the tiny cupboard that housed the loo.

It had been nearly a week, now, a week to become accustomed to this diminutive home, to be cut off from the civilized world in this bubble of warm laughter and urgent kisses. A part of him wanted it never to end, but another, growing awareness reminded him that he’d have to leave eventually and that the future that faced him was one laced with conflict, recriminations and sourness.

He would deal with that when it came, but for now, in this tiny, tidy space, he felt at home and at peace for the first time in many years.

And that calmness grew stronger later on, when, as Merlin shuffled pieces of paper in the cabin, and scribbled intently in his notebooks, Arthur steered _Aithusa_ through the mist. The fog hugged the boat like a soft, grey glove. In slow gusts, a cool dampness caressed his cheeks. Shapes loomed out at him - here a heron standing sentinel, there a tree, bending over the water. The boat glided quietly on, with just a gentle throb of her engine to keep Arthur company, as if slipping through a portal into another world. Time lost all meaning and his thoughts stilled. 

Years later, he would remember that tranquil morning as the moment when everything in his head gradually locked into place. Leaving him feeling alive. Whole. Resolute. And he was thankful, so thankful to the man who had made it all possible. The messy-haired, warm-eyed idiot, with the smile that could break hearts at a thousand paces.

He was falling, and he didn't care. His heart and his soul were swelling with warmth and wholeness and a deep, grateful sense of trust. However much he knew that his father would never accept his choice, he was certain that he had never been this contented.

He would treasure the time that he had, and hope that it would be enough. Before he would have to say goodbye to Merlin forever and go back to his lonely, empty life.

 

*

Alice Collins lived in the kind of area of London that was dominated by former council flats that had once been occupied by working class families, but now, with escalating house prices, had been overtaken by buy to let landlords. There weren't many of her sort left, any more. Soon, as they died off, all these flats would become bedsits and where neighbours had once looked out for each other an anonymous sense of paranoia would then prevail.

But, for now, at least, there were still a few of the old guard around.  

“Eh?” She squinted suspiciously at the man through the crack, door-chain pulled tight. Young chap, dressed in a suit. Not the normal sort that you saw round those parts.

He looked smart enough, with his pressed shirt and his shiny shoes. Alice set great store by shiny shoes. Her daughter had always warned her not to let strangers in without any identification, but in her book most villains wouldn’t bother with polish. And his eyes were a very pretty shade of blue, a bit like her Tom’s when he’d been young. And he was wearing a poppy, which went a long way towards telling her that he had manners.

“I said, may I come in, Mrs Collins?” he said, a little louder this time.

“There’s no need to shout.” She fiddled with the settings on her hearing aid.

Decision made, she pushed the door forwards and unhooked the chain, beckoning him as she shuffled into the house.

“Tea?” She groped for the kitchen light. “I’ve got freshly baked scones.”

“No thank you, Mrs Collins.” He stepped in, muttering into his mobile phone as young people were wont to do these days. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions. My name is Mordred Jones… I’m looking for your neighbour, Gaius Wilson, but he’s not been answering his phone. I wondered if you knew where he’d gone?”

“Oh.” She was a little bit disappointed, really. It was just one of Gaius’s friends. A doctor, probably. Or a lawyer. Even though Gaius had been retired for a long time, he still took on legal work sometimes. “Is it for one of his cases?”

“I’m afraid I’m not able to discuss it,” said the man.

“Aha. I thought so.” She nodded. It made perfect sense, with the sharp suit and all. “Well, I’m afraid you’re out of luck, my love. He’s gone on one of his painting weeks in Lake Garda. He’ll be back at the weekend, but he never takes his phone with him. He says it disturbs his peace.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have a contact number or the name of the hotel he stays at?”

She shook her head. “Sorry. His nephew may know? Merlin?”

“Ah. And do you know where we can contact the nephew?” The man, Mordred was it? leaned forward, licking his lips, as if she had just offered him one of her scones.

“I haven’t seen him for ages.” She shrugged. “He’s been working on his book thing. Drops in from time to time, but he hasn’t been here for a while. Needs more fresh air, that boy, if you ask me.”

“Well. If you do hear anything or remember anything, please let me know.” He put a card down on the table. It was all posh, gold-embossed with copperplate lettering.

“Mordred Jones, security consultant,” she read out loud. “Well, Mr Jones, if I do think of anything I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Thank you!” he said, his teeth flashing white in a sudden smile that lit up his face, but was gone as soon as it had appeared. “I’ll see myself out.”

What a very odd young man.

 

*

 

The sunset cast deep bronze light in slants onto the table, igniting Arthur's hair in blazing shades of auburn and yellow, but leaving his eye sockets in shadow.

“All right. You’re brooding, I can tell,” said Merlin. He wasn’t exactly fed up with Arthur’s long faces and moody sighs, but they weren’t filling him with joy either. “Out with it.”

 “I’m not brooding.” Fingering his coffee cup, Arthur looked up from his book, face solemn, bottom lip plumped out. “Out with what?”

“You are brooding.” Merlin nodded at the book. “You haven’t turned the page for half an hour.”

“You’re not meant to be watching.” Arthur’s face coloured, though.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“You might as well tell me.” Leaning forward, Merlin prised the cup, still full of cold coffee, from Arthur’s fingers. “You’ve let your coffee get cold.”

“I like it cold.” Arthur’s mouth narrowed to a thin line.

“Right. Just like you enjoy reading the same page five times. What’s it about?”

Abruptly slamming his book closed, Arthur stood up. “Stop bugging me.”

“I’m not going to. Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong.”  Arthur’s sigh gave the lie to his words. “Except…”

“Go on.” Persistence paid, with Arthur. Merlin couldn’t say how he knew that, but he did.

“It’s just - how long can I stay with you? On this boat, I mean? Surely you’ll run out of fuel eventually, and you’ve got to hand in your thesis. And it’s Remembrance Day soon. I wouldn’t want to miss that. I’m just….”

“You’re not sure you’re ready to face the world yet.” Merlin nodded. He’d thought it had been something along those lines.

“It’s not just that.” Sighing, Arthur gazed out of the window. “I know I’m privileged. But I have duties, heavy ones. I’m not going to shirk them. But what will happen to this… to us? When I go back, I mean. It wouldn’t be fair on you to keep this going. The paparazzi will—”

“Arthur!” So that’s what had been bothering him. Merlin felt his face soften. “I’ve been through that before, with my father, remember? It would probably have bothered me, years ago, when I was hot-headed and idealistic, but now? I’ve lived through worse. Believe me.”

“What did happen, to your father I mean?” Arthur's eyes held a disconcerting intensity. 

"What?" Taken aback by the directness of the question, Merlin drew in a shaky breath. “My da had enemies on both sides who didn’t approve of him renouncing his past and arguing for peace. For reconciliation.” He shrugged. “The police think that dissident republicans assassinated him, but it could equally have been done by hard-line unionists.”

“It must have been hard for you.” 

“Worse for my mum.” He let out a bitter laugh. “My da and I hadn’t spoken for years.”

“I didn’t realise.”

“Yeah, well. Dad never really accepted my sexuality. Things are changing, in Ireland, now. But it’s slow. Funny that same-sex marriage is legal in the south, now, but the unionists are blocking it in the north.”

“I can help to change that,” Arthur’s eyes, still trained on Merlin's, glistened in the dim light that trickled in through the lace curtains. “By coming out, I mean.”

“I hope so,” said Merlin. Sighing, he grimaced at the cold dregs of his coffee. “Change is slow, but it’s moving in the right direction, at least.”

“I’m sorry, you know.”

“What for?” Puzzled, Merlin looked up again, to find Arthur still gazing at him.

“Before—when—”

Oh. Before.

“Are we going to talk about that?”

“I think we should. Because I need to.” Swallowing thickly, as if he was finding it hard to speak, Arthur stood up and took his mug to the sink. “You know. Closure.” He stood there, holding on as if for dear life, staring at the tap.

“I’m sorry, too,” said Merlin to Arthur’s back. “For what it’s worth.”

“I didn’t mean what I said. About, you know—”

“Oh— so you didn’t really think that I was a pathetic, gold-digging shit-stirrer from a family of thieves and murderers?”

“I was trying to push you away.”

“You succeeded.”

“I was a mess, you know, afterwards. No-one even knew why. Father hired a psychiatrist. I wouldn’t tell the man anything.”

Merlin remembered it all as if it was yesterday, not three years ago. Five weeks, they'd had. Five glorious, hedonistic weeks of surreptitious shagging in Merlin's university digs. All under the cover of darkness. And then they’d rowed spectacularly, accused each other of unforgivable things, and Arthur had left his life as suddenly as he’d arrived, leaving nothing but tattered remnants of Merlin’s self-respect.

“I thought you hated me,” said Merlin. “It was… Look, Arthur. I forgive you, of course I do. It’s all water under the bridge. And, and… well, I know I said unspeakable things as well. You shook me up, you know? I didn’t really mean it when I said that the entire aristocracy deserved to be guillotined, starting with your father.”

“You might change your mind when you meet him.” Arthur snorted, a welcome sound and a marked contrast to the stilted, formal tones he’d adopted moments before.  “I fell in love with you, then, you know,” he added. “I couldn’t handle it. I was freaking out. So I drove you away and have regretted it ever since. But I couldn’t find my way back to you. Not without letting anyone know.”

“And now?” Standing, Merlin crossed to the sink, putting his mug next to Arthur’s. “Do you regret meeting me again now?”

“It’s the best thing that has ever happened to me,” said Arthur, abruptly, turning to him, sincerity shining from his face like a beacon.

And with that, Merlin knew he was lost.

“Me too,” he breathed.

And with his hands and his lips, he showed Arthur how much he meant it.

 

*

It was one of those cool, grey mornings that gave November a melancholic feeling. _Aithusa_ made slow progress through the dark water, the world lit in muted tones of grey-green. At first all was still and tranquil, but after a moment or two hints of life sprang up everywhere. The hunched form of a squirrel scurried along a branch, while the gentle shiver of water along the reeds hinted that a moorhen or duck was paddling along out of sight. A musty, autumnal scent filled the air, as the natural world busily readied itself for the onset of winter.

Arthur stood quietly in the stern with Merlin, a mug of tea in his hand, a soft, almost wondering expression in his eyes as he gazed all about.

“I had no idea it could be like this,” he said. “England, I mean. My life is so busy, normally. Every second accounted for. This—if you’d asked me a few weeks ago, I’d have thought it would be hell, plodding through the silent land on a clapped out old boat.”

“Oi!” Merlin felt he must protest on _Aithusa_ ’s behalf. “She’s far from clapped out!”

Arthur laughed, his breath a ghost. Behind him, a willow tree loomed over the prow of the boat, yellowing fronds grazing the cool water.

“You know what I mean. She’s a quiet, peaceful form of transport from another age. And this. I love it.”

“Me too.” For a moment, Merlin wasn’t looking at the canal. He held Arthur’s eyes instead, wide and dark in the dim autumn morning.

“It’s been years since I’ve spent a significant amount of time in the English countryside.” Arthur was the first to look away, in the end, gazing out across the still water with a shrug. “I didn’t realise how much I missed it. Thank you. For reminding me, I mean. Not just giving me time and peace, which I needed. And most of all for your friendship, your care, which I—" he swallowed, still not meeting Merlin’s eyes. “But this, as well. This is precious to me. My country. The land, and all the creatures in it.”

Finally, he looked round. And it was a good thing that they were on a straight stretch of the canal because for a second Merlin couldn’t breathe, let alone move the tiller.

At that moment, a glint of electric blue flashed across his field of view and he looked away, startled.

“What is it?” said Arthur.

“A kingfisher. There!” Merlin pointed with his free hand. “See him?”

Obligingly, the kingfisher dived off his perch, swooping low across the water, a vivid streak of iridescence, stark against the green-black water.

“Oh, my God!” Arthur whispered. “He’s so beautiful.”

“Yes,” said Merlin, throat constricting, his eyes drawn to the noble set of Arthur’s brow, the dark red of his lips. “He really is.”

 

*

They moored up a few hundred metres upstream of a gaily-decorated pub, warm and welcoming in the early gloom, and trudged off on their morning run. Merlin had plotted out a route on the Ordnance Survey map, which took them out under the train line, over fields and into a quiet patch of forest, all trembling leaves and dank bracket fungus. As they ran, feet slithering on the mud because they had the wrong sort of shoes, Merlin could see by the brightness of Arthur’s eyes and the glow on his cheeks that he was recovering quickly from his ordeal. A conclusion which was rapidly confirmed when, on a particularly steep stretch of hill, Arthur sped away from him, a gleeful grin on his face.

“Keep up, slowcoach,” Arthur shouted over his shoulder.

Muttering under his breath about arrogant clotpolls, Merlin did his best, but Arthur beat him back to the boat by a good thirty seconds.

After they’d showered, they decided to risk venturing into the pub, which looked like it hadn’t changed substantially in five hundred years. A merry fire in the hearth lit the rough-hewn flagstones, and Merlin had to duck under a beam to get through into a quiet lounge area. They sat in a corner, heads and faces covered, talking in low voices over a steaming cup of hot soup and some home-made bread, while Merlin kept a wary eye on the door.

It was all right for a while, but Merlin could see Arthur’s shoulders tense when a family clattered in, and curious eyes were lifted to the corner where they sat. The mother, in particular, kept glancing over to them, tinkering with her mobile phone all the while, and Merlin began to feel twitchy.

“Come on,” he said, reluctant because of the warmth of their corner, but nervous. “Let’s finish up and go.” He folded his hand over the top of Arthur’s, trying to warn him not to speak.

Thankfully, Arthur must have got the message, because he nodded, and the two of them rose to their feet. It was only when they’d got round the corner, out onto the towpath, that Merlin relaxed a little.

“I heard a click,” muttered Arthur out of the corner of his mouth. “She was watching us. I think she took a picture.”

“Shit. Are you sure?”

“I’ve been photographed often enough, Merlin. I think I know what it sounds like.”

“We should go the wrong way. Not let them know where we’re going.” Merlin started to speed up into a jog. “I know a back way back down to the towpath. Follow me.”

Silently, Arthur fell into step beside him, tugging his hat down over his forehead to disguise his face. “Shit,” he said. “We’ve got too complacent. I’m not ready to go back to the palace, not yet. I know I’m not.”

“It’s okay Arthur, I won’t let them take you.” They were at a full run now, hurtling along a tiny country lane towards a public footpath, turning down it, pounding feet splashing through grey-brown puddles. 

Gripping and hurling the painter at the prow onto the boat, Arthur leapt aboard in a single stride. Merlin dashed up to the other end, unhooking the rope and scrambling onto the stern. It was a matter of seconds to get the hatch open and the engine running, by which time Arthur was safely stowed inside. Heart pounding, Merlin tugged his hat over his eyes and his scarf over his face, but then realised something. If they’d been photographed, their disguises were no good any more.

“Arthur,” he hissed through the open hatch, struggling out of his coat and hat whilst trying to steer with one hand. “I need some new clothes. Quick.” He thrust the discarded clothes towards Arthur, eyes darting about, scanning the towpath for any sharp-eyed members of the public who might be following them.

Which was why, a few minutes later, he found himself clad in a hideous mustard-yellow jumper, which Gaius’s neighbour Alice had left aboard months ago, with a Greenock Morton Football Club baseball cap tugged down as far as possible over his face. God bless Gaius and his quirky footballing allegiances.

Hand gripping the tiller for dear life, he steered into a lock to begin the long, painfully slow process of ascending through the Chiltern Hills. Luckily, it seemed like a boat must have passed them in the opposite direction recently, because all the locks were all empty, set in their favour. But even so, it was a laborious process, filling the locks and pushing on up, all the while wondering if a random cyclist or jogger would spot them.

Merlin wondered how long it would take before Arthur would be ready - and whether Merlin would ever be ready to let him go again. Because, God, the Arthur was no less beautiful than he’d been when they’d been young and impulsive, but the boy had grown into a man. And what a man.

He wasn’t just the Prince of Wales, not any more. He was something much more important than that.

 

*

“This is ridiculous, Leon.” Uther’s face was ominously dark. Sometimes, Leon worried about his blood pressure. “He can’t just vanish like that. He’s the Prince of Wales! He has duties!”

“Yes, sir.” Leon stared at a point just behind the king’s head, keeping his face carefully neutral. “But he hasn’t completely vanished, sir. There have been sightings all over the U.K. Sir.”

“I know that, Leon, I’m not a complete imbecile.” When the king’s expression clouded like that, Leon found, it was best just to keep his mouth shut. “However, the big question is: which ones have any ounce of credibility?”

Leon sighed. It was hard keeping honest with his employer, whilst also keeping faith with Morgana. But he’d long ago decided that it was the king who was at fault in this matter, so he didn’t say anything.

“Which ones do you think are credible, Leon?” Uther’s eyes bored into his. “I want your honest opinion.”

Swallowing, Leon leant over the table and tried not to blink. As far as he could tell, there were only two credible sightings: the one in Southall, at an Indian take-away that Gwen had been to once with Merlin, and the one at an out-of-the-way pub in Hertfordshire, which was accompanied by a grainy photograph. But that had been taken two days ago, and since then the Prince had vanished - probably staying somewhere up in North-West London or the home counties was their best guess.

“I have no idea at all, sir,” he said, keeping his voice as smooth as possible. “Maybe the so-called Cornish Cluster?” He poked a finger at dot on Uther’s map. Many of the sightings in South West England had been orchestrated by a friend of Gwen’s, but Uther was not to know that.

“Thank you, Leon.” Uther sighed, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. “You may go.”

“Thank you sir.” Leon turned to leave, breathing deeply through his nose.

“Oh, and Leon?”

“Sir?” Turning on his heel, Leon gazed inquiringly back at his employer, one eyebrow lifted.

“Before you go, you might want to consider where your loyalties lie.” Uther made a little shoo-ing motion with his hand. “Off you go.”

“Sir.” Now, what did that mean? Heart pounding, Leon pushed through the door of Uther’s office. 

 

*

After Leon had left, Uther pressed the button on his intercom and spoke to his secretary.

“Geoffrey, have him followed.”

“Of course, sir.”

So, Leon was in his daughter’s pocket, was he? Well, Uther was no fool. He knew someone who would not be pleased about that.

“And bring me my daughter’s security detail.”

“At once, sir.”

Steepling his fingers, Uther stared at the closed door and brooded.

For his own sake, Arthur had to be cured of this fixation. Society may have become lax and permissive, but the future king of England could not be indulged in this way. He must learn to rein back his urges, and in Uther’s considered opinion, Dr Aredian’s clinic had the most practical approach. Aredian also ran another clinic, a more secure one, in Switzerland. Once Arthur returned, Uther would ensure that he did not get away again before he was cured.

And as for that Irish republican that he’d disappeared with - well, kidnap was a serious offence. Uther would see to it that he ended up behind bars, for a long time. After all, the Prince of Wales could not be seen to be deliberately associating with a known homosexual - and a political subversive, to boot. No, a kidnap charge was the only acceptable, scandal-free option.

Abruptly, he turned the lock in the drawer beneath his desk, and hearing it click, tugged it smoothly free. Pulling out a picture of Ygraine holding Arthur, he stroked it with his thumb. So beautiful, her golden hair cascading down to her waist, Arthur’s chubby little hand reaching up to cup her chin.

“Don’t worry, my dearest love,” he said softly. “I will save him from himself. I promise.”

 

*

“Why have we stopped?” Arthur’s voice was querulous, almost petulant, his jaw set as if he was grinding his teeth.

They’d reached a place where Merlin knew there was a town with a cinema and a supermarket. He had hoped, earlier, that they could stop there for supplies, and maybe even catch a film. But taking in Arthur’s glazed-eyed, hunted expression and the way that Arthur’s hands twitched on the boat’s roof, Merlin hastily rolled back his plans.

“Erm. I’m just popping to the supermarket. I’ll use the automatic checkout, don’t worry. No-one will know.”

To his surprise, Arthur nodded his assent.

“Can you get a paper?” he said. “I’ve been cut off from the world for too long.”

“A paper? Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Christ, no. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready. But I have to know.”

Merlin searched Arthur’s face for clues but it remained impassive, with just a muscle twitching in his jaws betraying his tension.

“All right,” said Merlin, at last, still feeling unsure, but knowing that they needed something to eat at least. “But, please. Stay below, and stay calm. Everything will be all right, you’ll see.”

“Don’t take too long.” Arthur bit his lip, his knuckles white against the stair-rail.” And keep your head down. CCTV everywhere these days.”

“I won’t. And don’t worry, I know. It’ll be fine, Arthur.”

Merlin couldn’t help wishing he could believe his own assurances.

 

*

The kind young man—Mordred, was it?—was back, and bless his heart he’d brought her some lovely chocolate cake. Trying to help him to find her neighbour was the least that Alice could do.

“So you see why it’s so important,” he said, sitting carefully on the arm of her sofa.

“Well, yes, although I’m shocked, I must say. Young Merlin really never struck me as the criminal type. Head always in a book, that one. Mind you, it just goes to show, you think you know people. But really, him and his uncle, they’re two of a pair, tinkering around on that boat of Gaius’s until all hours.”

“Boat?” Mordred’s head tilted on one side, and he crossed his legs. “Tell me more about that.”

“It’s one of them narrowboat things.” Alice took a sip of her tea, sighing with contentment as the heat hit her throat. “Lovely cuppa.”

“The boat, Mrs Collins?”

“Ah yes. It’s moored down in the basin, I think. _Aithusa,_ it’s called.” She chuckled. “Gaius took me out on it once. It was rather sweet, going through the zoo and all.”

“Thank you, Mrs Collins,” he said, standing and tapping something into her phone. He really did have a very sweet smile. “You’ve been most helpful.”

“Oh. Are you going so soon?” Disappointed, she started to struggle to her feet to see him out. She didn’t get many visitors, not since her daughter moved to Australia, and with Gaius away things had been very quiet.

“Don’t worry! I’ll see myself out.” He brought his phone to his ear as he strode to the living-room door, past the table with all the pictures that reminded her of her family, of a life filled with laughter and song. A life long past, and far away.

“Sir?” he said into his phone, sounding excited. “Sir! I think I might have something for you…”

 

*

“Just how many papers did you buy?” said Arthur, aghast at the headlines in the _Daily Mail_. They were sitting opposite one another at _Aithusa’_ s tiny pull-down table, which was strewn with newspapers and magazines. “I hope you didn’t draw attention to yourself. God, this paper really is disgusting.”

“Of course I didn’t. Don’t worry, Arthur.”

“But you’re a wanted man, now. You have to be careful. Shit, Merlin, I’m so sorry. I never meant that to happen to you.”

“It was my choice to help you, and I took it freely.” Despite his brave words, Merlin’s face was grave, his lips turned down, and his shoulders trembling. He wouldn’t meet Arthur’s eyes.

“You couldn’t have foreseen this, though.” Flicking the paper with his forefinger, Arthur clamped his jaws together against the wave of anger that crashed over him. Merlin had saved him in numerous tiny ways since he’d been on this boat. “I’m not going to let Father hang you out to dry like this.”

“Seriously, Arthur, it’s fine.”

But busy fingers fiddling with today’s issue of _The Guardian_ said otherwise.

“It’s not fine.” Arthur clasped Merlin’s hands between his own, to stop his dithering. “This is my mess, and I will deal with it. I am not going to hide any more. I’m going to go public.”

“Are you sure?” Merlin’s eyes were full of worry when he finally looked up. “You said this morning that you weren’t ready yet. You don’t remember what you were like when you turned up on my doorstep, Arthur. I couldn’t bear to see you go back to that...that—" He swallowed.

“Father can’t force me back there.”

But Merlin’s tragic-eyed expression said that he was still worried.

“You know what?” said Arthur. He stood up and started to pace, the length of the kitchen and living area, and back again. “We should go public. We should take control of this.”

“But you need more time.”

“I will be fine. Screw this,” said Arthur, vehemently. “I’m not going to stand aside and let them fuck you over.”

 _The Daily Mail_ had been particularly vitriolic, with a hectoring opinion piece that somehow managed to insult the LGBTQ community, the Irish Republic, Northern Ireland Catholics, Scottish Protestants, and Merlin’s entire extended family, whilst at the same time whining about political correctness. Its breath-taking cynicism made Arthur feel physically sick.

“At least the Guardian columnist did her research, even if she did spell my mum’s name wrong.” Sniffing noisily, Merlin turned the page. “She’s been horribly thorough. How on earth did she find out about Uncle Gaius’s estrangement from mum’s family? Is it even legal to print this shit without his permission?” 

Ignoring the way that Merlin’s eyes brimmed with tears when he mentioned his mum, Arthur resumed his furious pacing. He knew what it was like to have personal details of his parents and their private lives plastered across the newsstands for everyone’s prurient enjoyment, and his heart burned with righteous indignation.

Merlin didn’t deserve this. All he’d done was help Arthur, for God’s sake, he’d saved Arthur’s life and sanity, and given him the precious gifts of time, healing, and love.

Well, he thought with a fierce, protective urge. Now it’s payback time.

“Well, I don’t know who they are,” he said, “but when I find out who this _‘source close to the royal family’_ is, I’m going to personally see to it that they never work again.”

“Thanks.” It was gratifying to see the ghost of a smile flitting across Merlin’s face. “I can fight my own battles, though.”

“And so can I,” said Arthur, “but together, we’ll be better than the sum of the parts. Right?”

“Right!” Merlin’s smile bloomed a little brighter, then. “One team, one dream.”

Merlin’s smiles, even the tentative, slightly self-deprecating ones, were infectious. After a heartbeat, Arthur discovered that he was returning this one now. With what he wouldn’t be surprised was a besotted expression.

“As it happens,” said Merlin, smile widening into a full-blown grin “I have a cunning plan.”

 

*

“They’re on the Grand Union Canal.” Uther felt vindicated. He knew Arthur hadn’t gone far, he knew it. “Those photos from that supermarket prove it. And now we know the name of the boat, as well. Thank you, Mordred. Your help has been invaluable.”

“You’re welcome, sir. My loyalty is to you, and the crown, sir.”

“Jolly good. Notify the police. And I’d like you to keep an eye on mine and Arthur’s security from now on. Oh, and don’t tell Leon what we’re going to do. He’s not to be trusted, I’m afraid. Morgana has him wrapped around her little finger.”

The boy’s face was impassive, but his jaw flexed visibly when Uther mentioned Morgana’s name. Ah. So it was like that, was it? Well, the boy was no more a suitable groom for the princess than his predecessor, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep him on side for now.

“You may go.”

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”

 

*

It was near the end of Tristan’s shift in the control room, and he was developing a cramp in his shoulder, when the door opened to admit someone and the room went quiet, a sign that someone senior had entered. 

Under his careful direction, the drone zipped along, dipping beneath overhanging trees and hovering above each narrowboat it passed. It was an expensive piece of kit, and the boss’s pride and joy. It wouldn’t do to get it tangled in an overhead power line or something while she was watching.

“It’s got to be on this stretch somewhere, Detective Sergeant,” said DI Isolde Raison, peering over Tristan’s shoulder to take a good look at the screen. She was wearing a subtle yet fresh fragrance, today, and her uniform was, as always, immaculately pressed. “We’ve checked the Aylesbury arm of the canal. No, it’s got to be up there on the main northern arm, somewhere between Tring and Leighton Buzzard. It wouldn’t have got further than that. Maybe it’s nearer Cheddington. Great Train Robbery country.”

“Not sure they’d have got that far north, yet, guv.”

Tristan gulped when her hand, hot and firm, slipped over his on the mouse, her thumb caressing his wrist.

“Ay, guv,” Tristan said, trying not to let his voice crack. God, he loved it when she teased him like this, with everyone else in the control centre oblivious.

Tristan directed the drone under a road bridge, all sturdy, red Victorian brick and dizzying spirals of ivy, and out the other side into a canopied section of canal down in the cutting. A jolly-looking narrowboat was moored there, her name obscured by a willow branch.

“There.” She pointed. “Can you get a closer look?”

Of course he could. Tristan was the best drone operator in the Thames Valley. Although the light was beginning to fail, and short of giving away their whereabouts with a spotlight, they wouldn’t be able to carry on with this job much longer today. People, they could find, with the infra-red camera. But reading names on boats was a whole lot more difficult. And they didn’t want this covert operation’s cover blown, not before they’d found the kidnapper.

With a delicate shift of his wrist, he let the drone flutter a little nearer.

“Melody,” stated the boat’s name.

Damn. Sighing, he pulled the drone up again. “Wrong one, Guv. Sorry.”

“Keep trying, Daniels. At least until it gets dark.” She patted his arm, and leaned forwards to breathe in his ear. “Bonus blow job later if you’re the one who finds him.”

Straightening, she nonchalantly strode towards the door, a casual grin on her face. “As you were, everyone. We all want the prince found, don’t we?”

Tristan wasn’t sure about that, but he liked the idea of his reward. Crouching over his mouse with cramped fingers, he redoubled his efforts in directing the drone.

About fifteen minutes later, with the drone a little further up the canal, he could just about make out the shape of a two-berth boat, cabin dimly lit, throwing shadows against the curtains. Squinting, he pulled back, putting the drone into hover mode as he tried to read the name of the boat. As he watched, the lights switched out.

It was now getting too dark to fly. Frustrated, he keyed the commands required to recall the drone, and sat back on his chair with a sigh. He’d check this boat out again in the morning.

So much for that blow job. Maybe tomorrow.

 

*

Merlin had rustled up a store-cupboard spaghetti puttanesca, and they’d washed it down with tea rather than wine, so that they could finalise their plans with clear heads. Twilight was upon them, and they were quietly supping the tea in the gloom, listening to the hum-swash of Gaius’s ancient dishwasher, when Merlin gradually became aware of another, slightly higher-pitched noise in the background.

“What’s that?” he said, looking up from the message he was reading through. “It sounds like a helicopter.”

“Or a drone.” Arthur returned his stare. “I’ve heard that sound before. In the army.” Abruptly, he stood and flicked off the light switch, so that the boat was wreathed in gloom and Merlin couldn’t read his message any more.

Holding his breath, Merlin listened, heart pounding, as the whining hum came nearer.

“I’ll have a look,” he said, hand on the curtain.

“No!” Arthur stopped him with a hand that snapped out before he could touch the lace. “They have cameras,” he hissed. “Don’t look outside! And they have microphones. Don’t speak out loud.”

Biting his lip, Merlin dropped his hand and drummed his fingers on the table instead.

When the noise gradually faded away the way it had come, the boat subsided into silence and he stared at Arthur, who was gripping the table until his knuckles went white.

“Looks like time is up,” said Merlin, quietly.

Without speaking, Arthur stood and tugged Merlin to his feet.

“Ready?” said Merlin.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” said Arthur firmly.

They stared at each other for a long time before Arthur pulled him in close, stealing his breath with frantic, dizzying kisses. Arthur’s beard rubbed against his, his shoulders and arms tense and insistent, pulling Merlin closer until they were hot and hard as they rubbed up against each other. All pretence at finesse fled. The moment called for decisive, fast action. Within seconds, Merlin was backed up against the double berth, collapsing onto the bed with Arthur on top of him.

Merlin clutched  desperately at clothes and hair, anything he could get his hands on.

“Arthur,” he moaned, tugging at Arthur’s shirt.

Rearing up, Arthur pulled his shirt up over his head, and the way that the muscles of his belly played under all that golden flesh made Merlin moan again.

Abruptly, Merlin turned, pulling Arthur across until he landed on his back, half-naked, eyes black and intent in the dim glow from the fading twilight, mouth glistening bright and delicious.

“God, look at you.” Merlin feasted his eyes on the canvas of skin, painted it with kisses, revelling in the warm tickle of skin and hair on his lips, his nose. Gently he worked at Arthur’s hardening nipples with his tongue. He tasted salt, and fresh laundry with a hint of something musty and uniquely male, so enticing that it made Merlin salivate. And when Arthur groaned, it rumbled through his chest, making Merlin’s fingertips and lips vibrate.

Merlin could weep from the sudden surge of desire that thrilled through him. Tilting his hips, he groaned as his hard length, still confined against his clothes, rubbed up against Arthur’s naked thigh.

“Fuck, your thighs,” he whispered, in a choked-off voice, reluctant to abandon the position, it felt so good, just working away against Arthur, rutting like a randy bloody dog, God. “God, Arthur.”

“Shhh.” Arthur’s fingers were gentle in his hair, at odds with the tension in the muscles of his gut and thighs. And then those hands, warm and firm, slid down Merlin’s body, dragging at his skin and slipping beneath the waistband of his trousers to clutch at his still flexing arse.

With a reluctant groan, Merlin turned away for a second, fumbling with his inconvenient trousers and pants. He was hard and already leaking. Hastily, he turned back, covering Arthur’s body with his, cupping Arthur’s sturdy thighs with his own, gripping Arthur with his body, clutching at him as if for dear life. They rutted together like that, nipping at each other, turning over and over, breath coming in little gasps, skin to skin, mouth to mouth, cock to cock, perfect and glorious _._ Merlin thought he could come like that, just from rubbing against Arthur’s hard length, their need overriding their anxiety.

Close and hot, slick with sweat, they writhed against each other, the friction burning deliciously against his inner thighs where he gripped Arthur.

With an effortless heave, Arthur flipped him onto his back, and Merlin slid his legs up until they were wrapped around Arthur’s waist, crossing his angles and pulling Arthur in.

“Bet you’re glad I do yoga now,” he said, between gasps, adding, “Oh fuck!" When Arthur’s finger breached his too-tight furl.

“Wait there,” growled Arthur.

“Not going anywhere,” said Merlin, tamping down a faint stab of disappointment at the loss of heat when Arthur pulled away to reach for the lube, watching with appreciation instead, as Arthur’s triceps flexed. Smiling, he took the opportunity to cup Arthur’s pecs, and give his nipple a tweak until it peaked.

“Stop that,” said Arthur slapping his hand away. “You sassy little shit.”

Laughing, Merlin, folded his hand into Arthur’s hair, enjoying the silky strands threading through his fingers, and gently angling Arthur’s face down towards his still-weeping, cock.

“Suck me off,” he said, loving that he could say that, loving the fact that he knew Arthur was dying to get him in his mouth. And, a moment later, gasping as Arthur took him in with obscene slurps. “Oh, God. Arthur.”

“You’re so noisy.” Arthur looked up, his eyes soft, face pink, lips puffy and used, tongue darting out to moisten them.

“Want me to shut up?”

“God, no.” The deep, almost desperate note in Arthur’s voice made little darts of pleasure shoot through Merlin’s gut. Arthur bent forward again, and this time, Merlin couldn’t speak.

Some nameless emotion washed over him, he thought it might be longing, or something else, deeper, more powerful and painful. He closed his eyes, and pulled Arthur away, not wanting this to end too soon.

“Fuck me,” he breathed, eyes searching Arthur’s, finding his answer in the way that they gleamed, too bright, too soft.

Nodding, swallowing, Arthur reached for himself, slicked himself up. Propping Merlin up with a pillow, he probed at Merlin with a gentle finger or two. He must have liked what he found, because it was only a second later that he lined up and slid in, mouth agape.

Merlin threw his head back against the mattress. It was hot and hard and perfect, and God, Arthur filled him into completeness, ready to burst, a flowerbud exploding into ecstatic bloom.

“Okay?” Arthur’s breath warmed his neck.

“Fucking brilliant,” said Merlin, flailing with one hand until he managed to reach around to Arthur’s perfect, rotund rump, squeezing it, pulling it in, further and further until he could feel every inch. 

With a breathless chuckle, Arthur fucked into him, and all words escaped him for a time. And when he came, it was with a smile on his lips and Arthur’s arse still clutched between his hands.

“I feel disgusting,” he said, when his senses started to return.

“You are disgusting,” said Arthur, looking utterly serious. “That’s one of the reasons why I love you so much. God, I’ve never known anyone like you. You drive me crazy.”

“What, me?” Arthur loved him? Swallowing down his disbelief, Merlin found himself frowning as he gazed at Arthur’s face. “Gorgeous prats aren’t meant to love scum like me! It’s meant to be the other way round: I, as your subject, offer you my devotion, and you, accepting it, move on.”

“I mean it.” Arthur’s forehead puckered. “You’re noisy, insolent, clear-sighted and… I owe you more than I can say. But—”

“Now wait a minute.” Merlin recognised that mulish expression, the minute set of Arthur’s jaw as if he was bracing himself to deliver bad news. He should have known! Should have known knew this was too good to be true. “You can’t finish a sentence like that with a _but_! You’re not going to push me away again.”

Arthur’s silence spoke volumes.

Shaking his head vehemently, Merlin put his finger on Arthur’s mouth.

“No. I refuse to let you walk out of my life again. You know I’ve loved you since the moment you walked into that kitchen, years ago all steely repression and… and… you didn’t speak a single word, but I knew it then and I know it now. There can never be anyone else for me, Arthur Pendragon. And if you walk out again, I’ll track you down and… and... “

“Merlin…”

A stray, dying ember of the sunset flooded through the window for a moment, falling on Arthur’s skin in amber slants, picking out each muscle in shades of bronze. He looked like a living sculpture, moulded by Merlin’s fingers into shapes that perfectly fit Merlin’s hands. Warm, golden and alive, as if with some magical art, Merlin had then breathed life into those heroic limbs.

“No. No! You stupid fuck!” Merlin shook his head. “Don’t. You don’t get to do this.” Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he bit his lip to stop his wayward mouth from betraying his pain by turning down into an angst-filled grimace. “You don’t get to lie in my bed, covered in my spunk, you arsehole, and tell me it’s not going to work out between us.”

“But the press!” Arthur’s voice, his expression, was vehement, almost angry. “They’ll track you down, Merlin. They’ll turn over every stone of your life. They’ll discredit you, and everyone you’ve ever known. They are vultures, they won’t rest until they’ve picked you dry. I won’t let that happen to you. I won’t…”

“Fucking idiot.” Merlin wept, great heaving sobs that made his shoulders heave and his vision blur. “Do you think I don’t know that? I can deal with that, I’ve been dealing with that since before I was born, ever since my Protestant mother met my father and defied her family to convert to Catholicism so she could be with him.”

Arthur covered his face with one hand, and Merlin felt like batting it away, to see what was going on in that stupid, repressed head.

But then his other hand grasped Merlin’s.

“Are you sure?” said Arthur in a gravel-filled voice.

“Yes, you fucking clotpoll.” Relief overtook him, in great waves that made him want to scream. “You don’t have the monopoly on being shafted by the fucking press! You stupid, noble, cabbageheaded wanker.”

“I’m not a wanker, you foul-mouthed Irish idiot.” Dropping his hand, Arthur turned to him with a wry smile, but his eyes were wet.

“For fuck’s sake!” Laughter rippled through him, then, mixed with heavy sobs. “Twat.”

They held each other tight, whispering murmured apologies into each other’s ears until the night fell completely and their shapes merged into the blackness.

 

*

The chalk hills rose steeply around them here, and the canal had been etched deep into the land. A canopy of trees leaned across the towpath, remnants of foliage grazing the surface of the water, their boughs glowing amber in the dawn light from the sun. Leaves tumbled from them in the breeze, filling the air with fluttering golden motes that settled, floating upon the water where they fell, making a golden passage that stretched on into the cool darkness up ahead.

“Come on, Arthur.” Merlin’s voice was an urgent hiss. “Let’s get going.”

“I’m coming.” With a sigh, Arthur turned his back on _Aithusa_ for the last time, and followed Merlin with heavy steps, burying his face in his collar and scarf.

The railway station was only a couple of hundred yards away from the canal here, and Arthur fell into step beside Merlin as they walked. Hurrying across the road, they stopped by the ticket machine where Merlin shoved a few coins and notes in, grabbing the tickets.

“Train’s due any second,” Merlin said in a low voice, clapping Arthur on the shoulder, as he looked around. “And keep your head down. Security cameras everywhere.”

Nodding, heart thudding and jaw tense, Arthur followed him over the footbridge and onto the crowded platform. It was a weekday, and this train was clearly a commuter service. The crowds stood in solemn silence, nodding along to their earphones, clutching steaming paper cups and copies of Metro, the free newspaper. When Merlin grabbed one from the stand, Arthur followed suit.

Although he wished he hadn’t when he saw the headline.

“Prince’s kidnapper on the run in South East,” it read, with a grainy picture of Merlin that must have been taken the previous day, at the supermarket.

Shit. Their trail was hot.

They shuffled into the First Class carriage with bowed heads, and stared at each other across the table while they waited for people to stop boarding. The train was not yet full, but thankfully their fellow travellers did not seem curious - presumably numbed by the daily tedium of their journeys.

Sighing, Arthur lifted his copy of Metro, as much to obscure his features as anything else, and scanned through the article. He stretched out his feet under the table, entwining his legs with Merlin’s for reassurance, and stared blankly at the page. The countryside they’d plodded through over the last two weeks sped past in a blur of mellow, autumnal vistas and dark brown suburban brick.

 

*

“What do you mean, they’ve gone?” Isolde’s voice crackled over his mobile; reception here was terrible.

“Sorry, guv,” said Tristan, panting and out of breath. He’d had to leg it up to the top of the cut to get a signal. Bloody Vodaphone, he really should get a different mobile network. “We boarded the boat, but the bird has flown and all that. They can’t have been gone long, kettle’s still warm.”

“Where the fuck have they gone? I’ve got that smarmy little shit, Jones, from the palace up my fucking arse.”

“Probably on a train right now.” Tristan glanced across the road at the station.

“Have all the trains south into London and north up to Birmingham boarded,” she said. “Make sure there’s a plain clothes reception waiting at Euston.”

God, he loved it when she was all commanding like this. But it did make his working life awkward, sporting a semi when he was in the middle of a fucking raid.

“Yes, guv.” He adjusted his trousers minutely and told himself to get over it. “Oh, and guv, there was a packet on the table. It was addressed to the King. For his majesty’s eyes only, it said.”

“Open it,” she said, voice sharp despite the crackles, “and get uniform to bring it here. Search that bloody boat from top to bottom. Oh, and send a DC to get the CCTV from the station checked out.”

“Yes guv.” He sighed. So much for that bloody blow job. A take-away curry and a quickie hand job was all they’d been able to manage last night, what with being home so late and up at the crack of dawn. 

It was going to be another shitty day, he could tell.

 

*

“They can’t have vanished again.” Uther loomed over his desk like an avenging angel, his face livid with rage. “The police are incompetent. Mordred, you are the only one I can trust. Stick to my daughter, my son’s secretary and that besotted idiot Leon like glue, do you hear?”

“Yes sir!” Mordred tried not to wince. He thought that probably the entire palace had heard that outburst. So much for stealth.

Still, he had one more thing up his sleeve. He would find the prince, and in his gratitude the King would grant him his wish to woo his daughter.

And then he and Morgana could declare their love to the world. She’d been clever, so clever, using that idiot Leon as a shield, but he knew that she loved him, Mordred. It was obvious, from the special way that she looked at him, but she had to keep it secret for now, he understood that. 

Letting his mouth tip up only a slight amount at one corner at the thought, he turned and left the room.

 

*

“Tickets please.”

Was it Merlin’s imagination, or did the ticket collector give Arthur a funny look when he flashed his ticket? God, he was getting paranoid. He determinedly avoided making eye contact when it was his turn. Made himself breathe through his nose and stay silent.

When the train ground to a halt, somewhere between the last stop and the terminus, he squirmed in his seat. It was only when Arthur’s hand landed heavily on his that he realised he was drumming his fingers. Looking up, he met Arthur’s eyes. Arthur shook his head, minutely, putting a finger up to where his lips would be if they weren’t covered up by Gaius’s Greenock Morton FC scarf.

“Ladies and Gentlemen.” The tannoy crackled into life. “We’re being held at a red signal, hopefully we’ll be on our way shortly.”

Most likely, this was some sort of humdrum delay, a combination of leaves on the line and signal failure or something. But that didn’t stop Merlin from imagining the worst. Stern-faced armed police boarding the train, rough hands at his neck, handcuffs. Interrogation in some dingy cell.

Swallowing, Merlin forced himself to look out of the window and breathe, condensation fogging the glass every time he exhaled. What was the worst that could happen? Even if police did board the train here, they would just take them off the train and bring them in for questioning. Merlin hadn’t done anything wrong. He would just tell them the truth, and they’d let him go. Wouldn’t they?

Arthur thought not. Arthur thought that his father would string Merlin up for helping him. But Arthur was just the kind of stupidly noble and over-protective boyfriend that would think that sort of thing. Wasn’t he?

When the train lurched forward again at a crawl, he felt like crying out of sheer relief. But he didn’t.

It helped that Arthur’s hand stayed on his for the rest of the journey.

 

*

The Rising Sun was a clean-looking pub on Tottenham Court Road, with a decidedly closed air to it at this time in the morning.

“Are you sure about this?” Arthur frowned as he spoke under his breath. It didn’t look like anyone was there.

“Sure I’m sure.” Merlin pressed a buzzer again, repeatedly. “He’s normally up doing accounts, stock-taking and the like at this hour. He’s just a little slow.”

Sure enough, a CCTV camera swivelled round towards them. Hastily, and out of habit, Arthur looked down, patting at his hood to check it was still in place.

“Gwaine, you suspicious Irish fucker, it’s me, Merlin. I’m in a spot of bother.”

“Merlin? Jeez, mate, heard you were in trouble. Come on up.”

A buzzer squealed, and Merlin pushed open the door. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief.

“Are you sure we can trust him?” he said under his breath as they walked up the stairs to the flat over the pub.

“Sure I’m sure.” Merlin gripped his upper arm. “He’s like my brother. We’ll be safe here.”

When Arthur saw the shifty character that awaited them, he wasn’t convinced. Gwaine was barefoot and bare chested, scratching away at a hairy washboard stomach that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a porn star. His three-day beard did nothing to hide his handsome, if slightly raffish features. He wasn’t the sort of man that Arthur would have trusted with his fugitive boyfriend’s safety. But Merlin seemed to think he was okay, so Arthur just scowled and tried to convey, by the power of his steely glare,the fact that he’d kill Gwaine with his bare hands if he screwed this up.

“Come in mate, quick as you can. I've had the police round asking me questions, Merls, so don't linger on the doorstep. You can use the facilities if you like,” said Gwaine, closing the door behind them with a lop-sided grin. “Your boyfriend, here looks like he’s constipated.”

“Constipated? Do you know who I am?” said Arthur, affronted, peeling off his scarf and hat, tossing them onto a nearby table.

“Course I fucking do!” Gwaine glared at him. “You’re the right royal pain in the arse who’s got my mate, here on the run. Pub's been stuffed full of sodding plain clothes cops most evenings the past couple of weeks. I can smell 'em a mile off. Not that I'm complaining, mind. Some of them are bloody fit. But the point is, Merlin's my mate, and you've got him into this bloody mess, so you don't need to act the royal arse with me.”

“Merlin is my friend.” Eyes narrowing, Arthur adopted his most haughty stance. “It was his own choice to help me, and I’m enormously grateful.”

“Stop it, you two!” Merlin rolled his eyes. “Gwaine, stop being a neanderthal. Yes, Arthur’s the prince. Yes, he’s an arrogant, entitled prat. But he’s also warm-hearted, noble and brave, quite funny sometimes, although obviously not as funny as he thinks he is, and he’s also my boyfriend, my Bruce Wayne, and I’m madly in love with him. So get over it.”

Madly in love?

“And Arthur. Yes, Gwaine’s a cheeky, womanising, Irish twat…but...”

But Arthur missed the rest of Merlin’s lengthy introduction to Gwaine, registering only a vague understanding of his pedigree as a publican, trouble-maker, and loyal best friend. Because his brain was too busy picking over the implications of _madly in love_. His face burned hot, and he wished he could have his scarf back to hide the blush blooming across his face. _Madly in love._ A besotted smile tugged at his lips.

He caught Gwaine staring at him and shrugged. They exchanged a rueful glance while Merlin nattered on.

“...broke that bastard Valiant’s nose, he deserved it, Arthur, and…anyway, I’d like you to shake hands.” Merlin’s speech ended abruptly and he stared pointedly at each of them in turn. “Go on!”

“It’s probably easiest just to do as he says.” Arthur stepped forward, holding out his hand.

“All right, Princess.” Gwaine grasped it, grinning. “Just remember that, in this pub, I’m the king. And then we'll get along just fine.”  But then his expression darkened. “Wait. You’re Bruce Wayne?”

“What?” Arthur started to speak, but abruptly had to close his mouth when Gwaine’s fist connected with his jaw. “Ow!”

“That’s for breaking his heart the first time round.” Gwaine crowded up against him, breathing hard. “Just make sure you don’t do it again. Or I’ll do to you what I did to that fucking sadistic little gobshite, Valiant.”

“I’ve got no intention of breaking Merlin’s heart.” Arthur rubbed his jaw, ruefully. God. That stung. “As it happens, I happen to return his affections and we’re...erm. Dating. I suppose. As for breaking Merlin’s heart - well, far as I’m concerned, it’s much more likely to be the other way round.”

“Good.” Gwaine shook out his hand with a pained grimace. “Because otherwise, if your nose is as hard as your jaw, I’m going to need a new set of fists.”

“For fuck’s sake, are you two quite finished?” said Merlin. “Because we’ve got work to do. Gwaine, do you mind making a couple of phone calls for us?”

“I will for you, Merlin.” said Gwaine, cradling his knuckles and visibly wincing.

“Good enough, I suppose.” Merlin sighed. ”Right. We’ll need to hire out your private room, if we can, please Gwaine. And the first person we need you to call is Elena Gawant. She’s a journalist, writes for The Guardian….”

His tension easing, Arthur carried on massaging his jaw. It was odd, but he was relieved by Gwaine’s display of protectiveness. He’d met men like Gwaine before, in the army. Hot-tempered brawlers with a sentimental streak a mile wide. Loyal to a fault. There was no way that a man like that would ever betray Merlin to Arthur’s father.

And that was all that mattered.

 

*

All hell finally broke loose at the press conference.

It didn’t happen straight away. They were still fiddling with microphones and doing sound checks when the Princess Royal, Her Royal Highness Morgana Pendragon, Duchess of Oxford and Lady High Marchioness of the Wards of Mercia, strode into the room with her retinue. The room fell silent save for the ominous tap tap of her jaw-droppingly expensive shoes on the varnished wood.

Arthur rolled his eyes. God, she did like to make an entrance. Standing, he slipped out from behind the table, and crossed the room to kiss her on the cheek. A fug of expensive cosmetics and a faint whiff of cappuccino assaulted his nostrils. He automatically rubbed at his cheek, chasing lip gloss traces.

“Good to see you, brother dear,” she said with an aristocratic toss of her head before turning her attention to Merlin, who’d stood up at the same time and had his hand loosely clasped in Arthur’s. “And...you must be Merlin?”

“Pleased to meet you, your Royal—Ow!”

Arthur winced. He could see thin white stripes on Merlin’s cheek where she’d slapped him. When Morgana slapped, she really slapped.

“That’s for breaking my brother’s heart the first time,” she hissed, mouth drawn up into a venomous sneer.

“What? But I—” Merlin’s face was shocked.

“Gwen and I figured it out. Don’t you dare hurt him again.”

“Morgana!” Arthur took her arm. He needed to deal with this before it got out of hand. He could see Gwaine sliding out of his chair, with an admiring grin. “How lovely to see you,” he added, loudly for the benefit of the journalists who were assembling in the room. “Pray tell me, how is Father, these days?” He steered her to the other side of the room and deposited her in a chair next to Gwaine. 

"Look. Please, Morgana. Just sit there and try not to make any more trouble.” The room was beginning to fill up with curious-eyed journalists. 

“Suit yourself.” She pouted.

“Looks like we both got our come-uppance,” said Merlin, who was smiling and rubbing at his cheek, which was turning livid pink.

“Wait." Arthur grabbed Morgana's shoulder and spoke in an undertone. "Where's your security detail? And why's Leon here?"

“I sacked Mordred.” she said. Despite her haughty expression, there was an undercurrent there, was it fear? "I found him rummaging head-first in my underwear drawer. Leon had to drag him away. Mordred was adamant that he and I were in a secret relationship. I've had to take out a court order." 

"Erotomania." Merlin, who had come to sit down next to Morgana on the other side from Gwaine, nodded. "It's more common than you'd think. Hope that he gets treatment. Otherwise you might find yourself with a dangerous stalker." 

“Yuk." Arthur shuddered. "Well, I can't say I'm sorry he's not here. He always was a creepy little shit. But isn't Leon still working for Father?"

"Uther sacked him." She shrugged, dislodging her cashmere scarf so that she had to flick it back onto her shoulder, almost choking Gwaine in the process. "But for different reasons. Let's just say that his loyalty to the king was challenged by your little adventure, dear brother.”

At that moment, Arthur was almost bowled over by what sounded like a squealing puppy, but turned out on later examination to be Guinevere.

“Arthur!” She hugged him tight. “Thank God you’re all right. And Merlin, too!” Merlin stood up and she hugged him, too. “But - Arthur, what have you done to your face? And Merlin, as well? Have you two been fighting?”

“Not as such,” said Arthur, smiling. God, he had missed her. “It’s good to see you, Guinevere. Thank you. For everything.”

“It was nothing, Arthur. Truly.”

But they had no more time to catch up, because more press had started to filter in. Elena Gawant ushered him towards his chair and the conference began.

Arthur was mid-way through answering a question on Dr Aredian’s methods from Dr Mithian Nemeth, a representative of The Royal College of Psychiatrists, when the door burst open. In strode Uther, accompanied by a bevy of armed police officers.

“Arrest this man,” he bellowed, pointing straight at Merlin. “He’s a terrorist, and a kidnapper!”

Someone screamed. One of the officers pointed his gun at Merlin, and the others dropped to their knees, weapons at the ready. Some of the less stern-looking members of the press gasped and started to scramble away, the scrape of their chairs loud on the floor.

“No!” Arthur cried into the din. Aghast, he sprang to his feet, standing in front of Merlin, arms out wide. “You can’t arrest him. He has done nothing wrong.”

“He kidnapped my son!” Uther yelled, every vein on his neck and forehead standing out. “Out of the way, Arthur! You’re protecting a criminal! You have Stockholm Syndrome...”

“No father!” Arthur yelled back. “The only person that has ever held me against my will is Dr Aredian, at that god-forsaken clinic. If anyone should be arrested it is him!”

“You dare to defy me!”

“Yes I do, father. I am gay, and Merlin is my lover. And no amount of this so-called therapy can cure me of being who I am, and loving the man I love. And I’m proud of that. Proud, father.”

A shocked hum rose from the room, and cameras swung back and forth between Merlin’s face and Arthur’s. An irrational part of Arthur wanted to giggle, but the rest of him was gauging Uther’s reaction.

“Consider this. Dr Aredian drugged me, Father.” Arms still outstretched, Arthur swallowed. A comforting hand landed on his shoulder. Knowing from the heft of it that it was Merlin’s, he stood a little straighter. “I could have died, Father. Merlin, here saved my life. Look.” He stepped forward, beckoning to Leon and Gwaine, who took his place as human shields, protecting Merlin from the police. And then he rolled up his sleeves, showing Uther the fading needle marks that still tracked up his arms. "I still don't know what they gave me. But I do know that they beat me. Left me alone and naked in a cold, silent room. Administered electric shocks."

Uther flinched a little at that, glancing around at the assembled press whose cameras were trained on Arthur as he spoke.

"Arthur, let us speak of these things more privat—"

"No! I want the world to know what this so-therapy involves. And how ineffective it is. Because it does not work. All this pain and unpleasantness, and for what? To cure me of my so-called disease. And he failed. Because, do you know what? I'm still gay, father. I'm still gay, and I'm in love with a man. His name is Merlin and he's standing right here. Being gay is not a disease. It's what I am."

For a moment, the room stayed quiet in the light of this latest bombshell. It was amazing how silent a room so full of people could be. But then someone started to clap. Puzzled, Arthur looked round. It was Elena Gawant, he thought. And then another journalist joined in, and another. Soon the entire room was filled with applause, with just him and his father facing one another, unmoving.

The ripple of sound washed around them for a while and then gradually slowed to a trickle and stopped.

Someone cleared their throat. A police officer, by the look of her, blonde, severe-looking and stern, stood at the king's side.

“Sir, has a crime been committed?” she said.

“Yes, Detective Inspector, it would appear so,” said the King, looking tired all of a sudden as his fingers kneaded his temples. "But at this point in time I am not sure what the crime is, nor who committed it."

"In that case…" She signalled to her team, who lowered their weapons. "I'd like to take statements. At the station, if you don't mind, sir. We have equipment there, and procedures to follow."

The press erupted in questions, and amid a starbust of camera-flashes and a forest of microphones, the royal family stepped out of the Rising Sun and into a fleet of waiting limousines.

 

*

It was only when Aredian was arrested, seven months later, that Arthur finally realised that it was all over.

It hadn’t been Arthur’s testimony that put him away in the end. It had contributed, of course. But the majority of the public backlash against Aredian and his methods arose thanks to Merlin’s work on the psychological impacts of so-called aversion therapy clinics. If Merlin hadn’t finalised his thesis, and put his work in the public domain, anxious mothers and fathers would never have bothered to investigate what happened to their offspring in the clinic. It was the case of a young woman called Freya that had eventually brought a prosecution. She and Merlin had rapidly become firm friends during the long trial.

But perhaps the most surprising and healing part of the whole drama was the emerging truce between Arthur and his father.

They were sipping tea in Uther’s study, now, in an almost companionable way, while they watched the news, Uther fiddling with the key to his desk drawer. The one that was always locked. One day, Arthur would find out what he kept in there.

The constantly looping headlines across the bottom of the TV screen, and the footage of Dr Aredian, handcuffed, being led from his clinic with a burly police officer at each shoulder, should have made Arthur feel triumphant, vindicated. But instead, a deep and abiding sadness filled him when he thought of Aredian’s other victims .

“I’m sorry, my son.” Uther’s voice was low, but it cut across the newscaster's drone. “I am so proud of the man you have become, I...I only wanted the best for you. I knew that the clinic was harsh but… I thought it for the best.”

It was unlike Uther to admit that he was in the wrong. Surprised, but not unpleasantly so, Arthur stared at his father. Uther's face was serious, pained even. 

"Apology accepted," he said at last. 

"It's odd," Uther added, after a moment, turning the key over and over in his hands. "Ironic, really. I hoped to heal you, but instead I ended up pushing you into the arms of that man." 

"He's the man I love, father." Arthur couldn't disguise the flash of anger that made his skin flush and his jaw tense. "And you cannot heal me of being who I am." 

"I am beginning to understand that, now, my son. And I'm sorry." Uther sighed long and slow, as if deflating, eyes still upon his fingers. "It is hard, raising a child on your own. And... I sometimes wondered if it was my fault. What I had done wrong, to make you the way you were. And I hoped to put it right."

Arthur tried for a moment to put himself in his father's shoes. Solitary, with no-one to confide in, the weight of a country's expectations and the world's gaze upon him. 

“It’s all right, father.” And, to his puzzlement, he meant it. “And thank you. For the apology, I mean.”

“I… I just didn’t want you to be alone. I thought that this… therapy. I thought it would help you to accept that you needed to marry.” Uther looked up then, eyes pleading.

“I understand, Father," said Arthur. "But I have Merlin. I love him, Father. And he loves me. Luckily for me, he has agreed to marry me. I won't be alone.” 

"I'm glad." Uther turned the key over in his hand, frowning. “You see... you see, it’s a lonely king that has to live without his queen.”

 So that was what his father kept in the drawer. That photograph had been missing for the longest time. Something twisted painfully in Arthur’s chest, and for a moment he could not breathe.

"She would have wanted me to be happy," he said, at last.

Leaning forward, he closed his own hand over Uther's. 

 

*END*

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own these characters nor seek any financial gain from this work.


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